


made to be broken

by Cats_Dont_Float



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Crime Scenes, Domestic Fluff, Drug Addiction, Eventual Relationships, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25630891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cats_Dont_Float/pseuds/Cats_Dont_Float
Summary: After the rebuilding of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John manage to settle into a vaguely comfortable routine of domestic life. But their lifestyle has never been the most child-friendly, and so John writes up some house rules in an attempt to protect Rosie. Sherlock predictably breaks them all in his own way, apart from one.orSmall slices of life from 221B as Sherlock and John try to establish some sort of family unit for Rosie, while investigating the intricacies of their own relationship which sits on the border between platonic and romantic. Also there's some background crime nonsense occurring as per usual.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 219





	1. a discussion of rules

221B Baker Street still smells of fresh paint and new carpeting on the warm spring morning when John wanders down the stairs after another night of troubled, broken sleep, only to find his flatmate laying on his back in the middle of the living room floor, pillow over his face, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world to be doing. To Sherlock, maybe it is. John’s still not exactly sure what goes on in that brain of his most days. That morning, though, John’s not quite in the mindset to stop and question it, or even to take a photo to send to Lestrade for him to add to his growing folders of blackmail photos for those days when Sherlock’s just a little too obnoxious at crime scenes. Instead, there’s something he’s got to say, something he’s been thinking about for a while, and so he’s armed with one of the beige card folders they use for case files, and as he passes by Sherlock he tosses it down onto his friend’s chest before carrying on into the kitchen to put the kettle on. There are, fortunately, no random body parts in their kitchen that morning as far as John can see.

“Ooh,” he hears from behind him, along with a single clap of Sherlock’s hands, “New case? Finally.”

“No,” John tells him, turning back to look at Sherlock through the open door between the kitchen and living room, just in time to see Sherlock open up the file and scrunch his nose up a little. “I just knew you’d only look at it if you thought it was a case. You know, because you’re a single-minded bastard.”

Sherlock sits up and smiles wryly at him, before removing the single sheet of paper from inside the file between two fingertips, holding it out like it disgusts him. John can’t stop a tiny laugh escaping him at the detective’s familiar drama queen attitude. John turns away again as Sherlock reads to focus on the nearly boiled kettle instead of having to watch him, those blue eyes of Sherlock’s scanning the paper critically, probably looking out for grammar issues more than he’s taking in the actual content.

“House rules,” he hears Sherlock read dramatically from behind him, and rolls his eyes tiredly. “Oh,” Sherlock says, and then, “No thanks.”

“What?” John huffs incredulously, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock.

“Never been a fan of rules,” Sherlock tells him, waving the paper in the air now, “Boring. Restrictive. Don’t you think?”

“Not really,” John replies, “They’re kind of...necessary.”

“Hmm, you would think that,” Sherlock replies with a grimace, “Typical soldier mindset. When will you grow out of that by the way?”

“Sherlock,” John says as sternly as he can manage, which, truthfully, isn’t very stern at all.

“Oh, you’re doing it again,” Sherlock says, pointing at John, corner of his mouth quirking upwards in amusement, “That face you do when you’re trying to be serious. It’s hilarious, you should do it more often.”

“Thanks,” John huffs sarcastically, “Look can you just not be a dick for three seconds, is that possible?”

“Hmmm...maybe,” Sherlock shrugs. He leans backwards again, tipping his head back so the base of his skull touches the carpet, and lets his eyes slide closed again.

John only hopes he’s still listening, and keeps speaking. “Look, we have a baby in the apartment now, I thought it was just best we set down a few ground rules. That list doesn’t have to be final, just something to discuss.”

Sherlock’s silent for a second, then lets out a small humming noise. “Perhaps,” he says, “For the sake of young Watson, I suppose. Though I don’t quite see what’s wrong with how we live now.”

“Sherlock, this place is not safe for a baby,” John sighs, “It’s barely even safe for adults.”

The detective’s face scrunches up again. “What parts of it exactly are unsafe?” He asks.

“The guns, the knives, the occasional murderer, the needles I’m sure are still in your bedroom, need I go on?” John huffs. He feels a little guilty when he sees Sherlock’s head duck down at the last one almost in shame. Before he gets a chance to even apologise though, Sherlock’s fingers are raising to his chin, his eyes sliding closed thoughtfully, and John sighs as he watches the telltale signs of him slipping quietly back into his mind palace. The place was almost wrecked after all the revelations about Eurus and Redbeard, and John’s watched Sherlock spend whole nights recently reorganising his own mind, but now as he sinks back into it he almost wishes there was a way to just drag the detective back out so they could at least finish their conversation. John’s about to turn away to check on his daughter before she wakes herself up, when Sherlock suddenly speaks.

“I’ll have a look at the rules,” he says, startling John entirely, “And we’ll speak about it later. Okay?”

John turns back around to look at him. “I know you already read them you insufferable prick,” he tells him lightly, and then, “But, okay. Thank you, Sherlock.”

The detective opens one eye lazily, looking John up and down as if he can’t quite tell if he’s being serious, and then snaps it shut again. “No problem,” he rumbles in that low baritone of his, “Now be quiet, I’m trying to remember something important.”

John can’t quite work out exactly what could be so incredibly important this early in the morning when they haven’t even got a client or case yet, but either way he shrugs and leaves Sherlock alone on the living room floor, sure that whatever he’s dealing with will resolve itself inside his head at some point. Upstairs, Rosie is beginning to whimper as she wakes alone, and he bounds up the stairs to get to her before her cries break through into Sherlock’s inner mind sanctum.

*****

Greg calls later out of the blue with a case. Sherlock labels it as ‘barely a five’ and refuses to leave the flat to solve it, but still throws himself into it with as much enthusiasm as always, roaming around the room with no regard for whatever piece of furniture gets in his way, just walking straight over the coffee table and at one point vaulting over a chair to get to his desk. He’s bored, John can tell from the constant rambling of things that don’t matter, the way he’s drawing out his deductions slower to make the case last, reminding John for all the world of a predator playing with its prey, savouring the catch. John would wonder if he’s having withdrawals, what with the constant tapping of his hands against his sides as he works, but he’s sure from his close monitoring that Sherlock surely can’t have taken anything in the last few weeks.

“John!” He declares at one point, roaming across the living room to thrust a photo into his hands, “Look at that and tell me what you see.”

John’s sure at that point Sherlock’s made every deduction he needs to and just wants to bounce ideas off of John in some way to prove his skill hasn’t disappeared in the last few days. He’s happy to do it, though, if only because getting to see the way in which Sherlock’s brain works is never not interesting. So he glances down at what he now realises is a photo of their murder victim’s body, and sighs softly as he looks around for whatever tiny detail has Sherlock bouncing excitedly o his toes.

“The neck,” Sherlock says impatiently after a while, and John looks in that direction.

“Strangulation,” he says at the sight of the familiar bruising, “That’s what Lestrade said too, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “but look at the bruises, two lines of them, one above the other. And the top ones are larger than the bottom.”

“So...they strangled her once, then again higher up?” John asks, “Might have just re-positioned their hands when they realised their first attempt wasn’t working.”

“No, the sizing is too different,” Sherlock says, and John peers closer.

“Two different hands?” John guesses, and Sherlock nods at him. “Why would she have been strangled by two separate people?”

“You’re finally starting to ask the right questions,” Sherlock says, and when John passes the picture back to him he looks down at it again, as if to confirm what he already knows, and then back up at John, eyes wide like a kid on Christmas. “Get your coat,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because it’s cold outside,” Sherlock says, “And the crime scene is outdoors.”

“Wait, I thought you weren’t leaving the flat?” John asks.

“Because Lestrade failed to mention, and probably even to notice, the double markings,” Sherlock replies, “This has got to be a six at least, maybe a seven if I can confirm a suspicion. Come on, let’s go!”

He’s already hurrying away to grab his own coat when John calls after him, “What about Rosie?”

The detective spins back around and huffs softly as his mind searches for a solution, and John gets that familiar flicker of doubt inside of him, like having Rosie here is an inconvenience for Sherlock, like it won't be long before he gets fed up with this. But then his flatmate’s pacing away again, and moments later there’s a loud shout of “Mrs Hudson!” It would seem they have a solution of sorts. And once Rosie’s safely in the downstairs flat, they burst out onto the streets of London, and John feels that familiar rush in his veins that only life with Sherlock has ever been able to bring.

As usual when they’re on a case, John can’t help but marvel at the sheer brilliance of Sherlock. At that point, it’s not even his deductions, or his keen eye, that impress John, but more the attitude with which he takes on every part of life. London seems to bend to the will of Sherlock, every road leading him to exactly where he needs to go, a cab always there the second he puts a hand out for one, every person, passing car and building telling him what he needs to know. The city is a busy blur that often overwhelms John, and yet to Sherlock it’s as much his home as 221B is.

He whirls onto the crime scene with that ridiculous coat of his that he loves so much swirling out behind him, even his clothing as dramatic as he is, ducking under police tape without waiting for an invitation from Lestrade, and demandingly stalking straight up to the place where the body was found at the very end of a dingy, dead end alley. John follows behind a little more meekly, shooting apologetic glances at the watching Scotland Yard officers before he’s being dragged down to crouch by Sherlock’s side.

“What are you looking at?” John asks as Sherlock takes out his magnifying glass and gets to work examining the dusty ground.

“Footprints,” Sherlock replies at a quiet murmur. John looks around in confusion, barely able to see any imprint of feet on the dirty concrete paving. Sherlock tuts softly. “Once again, you see but do not observe,” he says, and then points to a faint trail of black pockmarks on the floor. “The victim’s shoes, high heels,” he explains, “She must have walked through some sort of dirt on the way here before she was murdered. If anything I can get an indication of the route she took to end up here if I can get a sample of the mud. And she was clearly stumbling from her gait, panicked and possibly already initially injured.”

“Right,” John says with a nod, “And our murderers?”

“No obvious footprints,” Sherlock says, “but see here there’s a puddle? Well over here there parts of the paving where the surface dirt is a little disturbed, possibly by wet footwear. And the dirty splash marks on the wall over there show us there was some sort of scuffle.She didn’t go down without a fight. Plus I can estimate from the size and height of the splashes that we’re looking for two men, one a few inches taller than the other, both with fairly average sized feet. They ran down the alleyway, dragging her most of the way, so we can assume the attack was planned at least to some small extent. At some point she got free though and ran a few steps but then…” He pauses for a second as his eyes follow the path of high heel prints until they stop. There’s a faint marking on the ground beyond them that he peers at closely. “Faint blood stain. Probably from her nose by the look of it. Something caused her to fall and hit her face directly on the concrete, she didn’t even put her hands out to catch herself. Must have been a heavy fall. I assume that’s also when the strangulation occurred, or at least began.”

“Incredible,” John breathes, and Sherlock gives him that funny look John’s so used to, a mixture of bemusement and pride. Then the detective turns away to look for something else.

“Lestrade?” He calls, and watches as the other man strides over, “Got anything else back from the morgue yet?”

“Yeah, basic analysis so far,” Lestrade replies, “Some injuries we didn’t notice at first, nothing major or fatal but -”

“Let me guess,” Sherlock cuts him off, “Nasal fracture, small blow to the back of the head that bruised but didn’t break the skin, more bruising on the arms, and you’ve finally realised there are two sets of strangulation marks.”

“Yes but how -”

“Beginner’s stuff, really,” Sherlock says, “I’ll teach you one day, if you like.”

Greg rolls his eyes slowly and looks down at John, who mouths an apology at him before looking back at where Sherlock’s now moved closer to the wall and is crouched to stare at it, face almost pressed into the brickwork.

“Nothing else here,” Sherlock sighs in annoyance, “You shouldn’t have moved her body so soon.”

“We had to get her to the morgue,” Greg protests, “Standard procedure, Sherlock, some of us like to follow rules occasionally.”

Sherlock’s eyes glance over in John’s direction, flashing with some sort of emotion he can’t quite decipher, and then he’s up on his feet again and leaving the alley. “I assume you took her to Barts’?” he calls over his shoulder as Greg and John follow after him.

“Uh, yeah,” Greg replies.

“Good,” Sherlock says, “Molly’s on shift right now, shouldn’t be too hard to get her to let me in. Come on John, we can get a cab from the main road.”

“Bart’s is two roads away we can walk,” John suggests, and Sherlock huffs, as if that’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard.

“Speed is of the essence right now, John,” he says, “We don’t have time to walk.”

He picks his pace up a little as they reach the roadside, hand out, and a cab appears around the corner. John’s still not entirely sure the detective doesn’t just summon them into existence somehow. There’s no time for a joking comment about it, though, because before he knows it they’re in a cab that’s hurtling towards the hospital, Sherlock definitely having made it seem to the driver that they’re on their way to visit a quickly dying relative instead of an already dead stranger, and John’s distracted again by watching Sherlock’s face as the detective lists through what they already know again and again.

The trip to the morgue passes in a blur of rapid fire deductions and explanations from Sherlock as he leans in slightly too close to the dead woman’s face with that excited look back in his eyes again, hitting Molly with too many questions for her to answer in the short time he gives her, and then snapping his magnifying glass away with a grin. John recognises that look, it’s the sign that everything’s just slotted perfectly into place for him.

“What else do we need to know?” John asks anyway, just to humour him, and Sherlock laughs.

“Already solved it,” he says, “It was her father, with the help of a friend.”

“What?” Both Molly and John ask at the same time.

“She clearly knew her murderers, that’s evident from the fact they managed to get her to the alley in the first place, they only started the attack just before reaching it with her and then dragged her down it to more privacy to murder her. From the mud sample I just looked at whilst Molly wasn’t watching her microscopes closely enough, I can see she came straight from home, though she seems to have taken a strange route, most of it in a taxi. The last text on her phone, according to a message Graham - Sorry, Lestrade - sent me, was her telling a friend her dad was taking her out for a late birthday meal. Her birthday was over a month ago, if her dad cared about her enough to take her for a meal he’d have done it earlier. They only live a few streets apart and he’s unemployed, what reason could he have to not celebrate her birthday closer to the actual date? She came into a lot of money just a few months ago, this was clearly a scheme for acquiring her wealth as he’s her only relation, the others all dead or very distant, and, as I’ve said before, he was unemployed and struggling with a drug addiction. Anything else I need to explain?”

“Yeah, all of it,” John says, “But mostly the friend.”

“Ah, right,” Sherlock says, “Her father was of a nervous disposition, quit his last job because of paranoia about his coworker stalking him. Strange what you can find about people online, isn’t it? Anyway, he clearly wouldn’t have wanted to do this alone, and we know he didn’t because of the double markings on the neck. It’s not a hired assassin or a professional, this was all done too clumsily for that, must have been someone he trusted. But he was paranoid, he didn’t trust many people, so clearly one of his only friends. There are two sets of fingerprints on her. One matches the father, I just checked it against the police database, he’s had a few minor charges before, and the other I assume must be the friend’s. Tell Lestrade to bring the father in, it won’t take much questioning for him to sell out his accomplice, and there’s our murderers. Ah, that was easy, these criminals are losing their edge.”

“Sherlock,” John says, and the detective turns to him, puzzled.

“Wrong time to be annoyed at the criminals?” He asks, and John nods in agreement. “Right.”

“That was amazing,” Molly breathes out, and Sherlock fixes her with a strange look. “I’ll call Greg for you,” she tells them quickly, reaching to find her phone so she can look away, and then ducking out of the room once the call dials through.

“That _was_ amazing,” John agrees once she’s gone, and this time Sherlock seems to allow himself to accept the compliment.

“I know,” he says, absentmindedly fidgeting with the collar of his coat, before very quietly adding, “Thank you,” as an afterthought.

John rolls his eyes fondly at him. “Let’s go to talk to Lestrade,” he says, “Then we can go home.”

Sherlock looks at him for a second, head leaned to one side, blinks a few times rapidly, like he’s processing something, and then nods and brushes past John as he leaves the room without a word.

*****

It’s dark by the time Greg finally lets them leave after Sherlock’s irritably explained for the third time through gritted teeth how he came to his conclusion, and John has to all but drag Sherlock away to stop him snarling out any more insults in Donovan’s direction.

“Good case?” John asks as they step out onto the street, shivering in the sudden cold of the night air.

“Alright,” Sherlock says with a shrug, “Not quite intricate enough but it’ll do.”

John laughs at him with a shake of his head, before turning towards the road. “Cab?” He suggests, and Sherlock pauses in his step for a second.

“No,” he says slowly, “Let’s walk.” John tries to detect any trace of sarcasm in the detective’s tone or face, but there’s nothing but the usual sincerity with which he faces most of life.

“Okay,” he says slowly “It’s quite far back to Baker Street.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, “But we have time.”

“Right,” John nods, and when Sherlock begins to walk up the street, he follows after him, having to quicken his pace just a little to keep up. “Sherlock,” he says after a second, after the question of ‘why’ won’t stop bugging him.

“I like to retrace London sometimes,” Sherlock answers before John can even ask, something John’s used to by now but still always just a little startled by anyway. “I didn’t use to have to do it so often but...since I came back from...you know, being not-dead, everything’s been...fuzzy. Things have moved, but it’s not just that it’s...things feel different, I feel different. Like that feeling when something’s been moved in your bedroom but you can’t work out what it is, and it bugs you and bugs you but you just can’t understand it. And then Eurus’s final problem compromised the mind palace entirely and I almost lost everything.”

John winces. There’s a lot of things they don’t talk about. Crime, grizzly murders and the newest types of tobacco ash Sherlock has discovered are all very much on the cards for daily discussion topics, but things like Eurus, Mary, Redbeard and those two years that John barely even dares to think about are topics they often daren’t broach. But there’s a look in Sherlock's eyes now, and a decisiveness in his posture, that tells John they might be about to cross some line here. He’s not sure he likes the mix of terror and excitement that jolts through him at that thought. Fear and excitement, it’s an odd mix, and one he’s come to relate completely to Sherlock, and the life he’s built with the man. In a way, it’s almost a comforting feeling now, yet another thing that concerns every therapist he’s spoken to recently.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he offers, feeling, as he so often does, completely useless when it comes to comforting a man with such a complex brain as him.

“Whatever for?”

“You know, for everything you had to go through,” John says, and then detective puzzles over that for a second with furrowed eyebrows.

“None of that was your fault though,” he says, “In fact most of it was mine. And a little bit of Mycroft’s.”

“Yeah, no, I know that Sherlock, it’s just what you say, isn’t it? When someone’s hurting you’re sorry they’re hurting and you can’t help.”

“Well that seems stupid to me,” Sherlock says, and then checks, “Oh. Sentiment?”

“Sentiment,” John agrees with a nod. It;s colder out than he’d anticipated, and in the following silence he shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches in on himself against the wind. Baker Street is still rather distant.

“But I think I understand something now,” Sherlock continues after a few moments of them both trudging along in silence.

“What?” John asks.

“That feeling,” Sherlock says, “Of total and utter confusion. Like the world doesn’t make sense anymore. I’d never felt that before.”

“Right,” John nods. “Why are you telling me this?” It’s not like Sherlock to bring up anything vaguely emotional or sentimental, or even to discuss his own problems really.

“Because that’s what it’s like when you lose someone, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, and John loses the ability to function for a second.

“Sherlock I -” He starts when his brain starts firing again. Sherlock’s not done speaking though, apparently, and holds up a hand to ask for silence, and John gives it to him.

“I put you through so much,” Sherlock says, “I let you mourn me whilst people around you knew I was still alive. Because you’re right, I’m an areshole. I didn’t...I didn’t calculate the effect it would have on you, or I never would have… And after, I tried to make it up to you, I made a vow, and then I couldn’t keep that and you had to mourn again. Because I thought human beings were as easy as calculations and chemistry and numbers, but they’re not. I don’t understand why, but they’re _not_.” His hands have been curled into fists by his side in frustration, but now he raises one to pull at his curls roughly. “I didn’t ever want to hurt anyone, I just wanted to help them. I’m not a hero, John. I’m just human. I just wish other people would see that sometimes.”

John stops then, in the middle of the street, thankful that it’s mostly empty of other people but also not caring if there are others around anyway, and turns towards Sherlock when the other man stumbles to a confused halt too. He has a feeling Sherlock doesn’t even know the weight of the words he’s just said, probably hasn’t even registered most of whatever he just rambled out. All John does know is that Sherlock is hurting, hurting more than he thought possible, and he’s an idiot, a stupid, stupid idiot for not seeing it sooner.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs quietly, stepping forwards towards his friend, “None of that was your fault. You know that right? I know...I know what I said, in that morgue, and trust me I feel so horrible for everything I did to you but… I never blamed you for Mary’s death, not once, not truly. It just felt good to put my anger onto someone else.”

Sherlock’s hand is still curled into his hair, tugging harshly at the roots, and John reaches up, stretching on his toes thanks to their height difference, and grabs at his hand, squeezing until Sherlock’s fingers slowly loosen their grip and eventually untangle. Slowly their joined hands fall back down to their sides, and then John opens up his other arm and pulls Sherlock into a hug as best he can. For a second Sherlock’s tense, and John can almost hear his mind eating away at itself, but then he folds himself down to match their heights a little better, turning his cheek into John’s hair, and breathes out a heavy sigh that carries the burden of his thoughts.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you about this all sooner,” John tells him, “We should have worked all this out, shouldn’t have let it sit and never discussed it.” He feels Sherlock shrug. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for everything I said,” John says, feeling the need to apologise again and again until Sherlock stops shaking as much as he currently is.

“I’m sorry too,” Sherlock mumbles quietly, and then for a while there’s nothing but the tightness of his arms around John’s waist, and an embrace that’s so much against the cold night. Then a shout from a raucous group of teenagers across the road reminds John of exactly where they are, and he forces himself to draw back from Sherlock, watching in amusement as the detective straightens his Belstaff so he doesn’t have to look at John.

The corner of Baker Street is visible now. “Let’s go home,” John says, and when they begin to walk again he bumps his arm gently against Sherlock’s a few times, until the other is smiling to himself and hiding it with a ducked head and a small hum.

“I read your rules,” Sherlock says suddenly, when they’re almost back to the flat, “Again. And...you’re right. We can make it work, make it safe for Rosie.”

John glances over at him, surprised, but in a good way, and smiles. “Really?” He asks, “You don’t mind not having quite so much room for your experiments?”

“I’ve experimented on nearly everything known to man at this point,” Sherlock says, “Maybe it’s time to do something a little different for a change. A new type of experiment.”

And he means it, John can tell. Sincerity has never been a thing Sherlock’s good at, but for once John can almost feel it in his speech, each word heavy with the weight of what he;s trying to say. Sherlock himself is struggling under it, he can see it in the way he’s fiddling with his coat and his scarf and anything in reach, anything to keep his hands busier than his brain. John had worried, of course, in the weeks after he’d first brought Rosie to 221B. A recovering drug addict, self diagnosed sociopath, consulting detective wasn't exactly who he’d been expecting to have to raise a child with, probably wouldn’t have been anyone’s first choice. And yet here he is, Sherlock Holmes, notorious hater of new people, agreeing to make changes to his own life for the sake of John’s child. He really, truly means it. After everything they’ve been through, the feeling it leaves in John’s stomach is warm, but heavy with the idea of what this means, of what they’re really agreeing to do here.

“Even,” John says, ready now, he thinks, to voice the last question that’s been on his mind ever since they returned from Sherrinford, “Even the last one?”

Sherlock looks over at him, and it might be the strange lighting of the streetlights they’re passing under, but John swears for a second that Sherlock smiles almost...sadly. “ _Especially_ the last one,” he says, and then he falls silent in that definitive way that John knows means ‘we’re done with this conversation now’. So John just fishes the keys from his pocket and hurries the last few steps up to their front door, Sherlock catching up to him by the time it’s open and he’s heading inside. Mrs Hudson, clearly having been listening out for their return, meets them in the hallway to pass over a sleeping Rosie, smiling a little when they both politely decline her request for a late night cup of tea, and then they’re heading up, and into the quiet darkness of their own flat.

For a moment, John disappears further upstairs to settle Rosie into her crib, and by the time he returns, Sherlock’s in the kitchen. He follows him in, and finds him pinning up a piece of paper, the list of house rules John had passed to him earlier, onto the notice board they installed in the kitchen during the rebuilding, one of the only new furnishings to have been added. And as he watches, John allows himself, for the first time, to think that maybe the life they’re trying to build here isn’t quite as impossible as he’d predicted it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i watched sherlock for the first time last week and now i have feelings. this was meant to be a oneshot but it's looking like it's gonna be about five chapters long so...oops? the johnlock here is gonna be more of a QPR than a complete relationship.  
> anyway this fandom isn't my regular writing scene so idk how good my characterisation is, but it's a first try so i'm not too mad about it. i'm hoping some of you might actually like it and stick around for the next chapters and i'm excited to see what this fandom's like, it's been ages since i joined a new fandom so um thanks if you've actually read this, bye until the next update i guess.


	2. rule one - the violin

Rule One: No playing the violin in the middle of the night anymore

For the few days after their walk home, everything returns to normal. It’s plain sailing through the routine they’ve already pretty much established, and John could almost forget the conversation they ever had, if it wasn’t for Sherlock having made a point of very deliberately pinning up the list of rules in their kitchen. For someone who apparently hates rules, he seems to be taking these ones particularly seriously. Or at least John thinks he is, until that one night.

He’s drifting endlessly through fragments of memory and nightmares as usual when he’s pulled from his sleep by a noise. He sits up in bed too fast, blood rushing from his head in a way that leaves him dizzy and a little disorientated, and looks around himself, trying to work out exactly what it was that woke him. That’s when he hears it again, a weird screeching, echoing strangely through the otherwise silent apartment. He scrambles upwards, almost thinking what he’s hearing is a scream, but then he hears it, a faint plucking and a single resonating note, followed by a soft muttering. Sherlock. _Of course._ Sherlock tuning his bloody violin at one in the morning. John lets out an annoyed huff through his nose, memory flicking back to that conversation with Sherlock just less than a week ago, and stumbles across his bedroom towards the door. He’d been a fool to think Sherlock would ever follow any rule for that long. He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet some part of him’s just a little disappointed.

He trips and almost falls down the stairs twice as he makes his way down towards the living room, cursing softly under his breath. By the time he reaches the door, the tuning has picked up into a slow tune, nothing John recognises, just a few long notes played out slowly, like Sherlock’s waiting for the tune to come to his mind. John curls a hand into a fist in frustration, running his other hand through his hair in frustration and not caring when his fingers snag painfully in tangles, and readies himself to try and not shout at Sherlock, if only to not wake up Rosie. And that’s when he hears it.

“Now, Watson,” he hears Sherlock say quietly, in that low baritone voice that rumbles even more later into the night when it’s got just a hint of tiredness to it, “What shall I play tonight?” For a second John’s confused, thinking Sherlock’s talking to him, but he can’t remember a time Sherlock ever referred to him by his surname. And then he remembers who Sherlock does call Watson. Curiously, he steps closer to the doorway, and peers into the room as subtly as possible.

There’s only one light on in the room, a small warm lamp that Sherlock purchased just after the explosion to replace a broken one, but in the faint glow of it John can clearly see the familiar silhouette of Sherlock outline against the curtains, poised with his violin up to his chin, looking as ridiculously graceful as he always does. As John watches, he draws the bow across the strings slowly, long fingers dancing across the violin as he plays out another few notes. What it takes John just a little longer to spot, is the other person on the floor. Rosie. She’s laying on her back on the colourful play mat that Molly bought for her when John first moved back into 221B with Rosie, and Sherlock continues to glance down at her every now and again as he begins to play. He only gets a few moments into the tune, however, before he suddenly pauses, violin still held perfectly in place, and then slowly turns his head towards the door.

“I think,” Sherlock says slowly, “That we might have a larger audience tonight, Watson.” John gulps slightly, realising he’s been spotted, and wondering to himself exactly how he ever expected to not get discovered hiding there by the most observant man he knows.

Sherlock lowers the violin, and John hears the faint clattering of the bow against it as it’s discarded onto the sofa. Still, for some reason even he can’t quite decipher, John keeps himself in the shadowy hallway, looking inwards as Sherlock strides across the living room floor and crouches to gather Rosie into his arms, before turning to head in John’s direction. Only then does he finally take a few steps into the living room, and stands there were his eyes turned downwards, biting at the inside of his cheek a little as he waits for whatever Sherlock’s sure to have to say. Something snarky, he’s sure.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says once he reaches John, shifting Rosie on his hip a little to balance her better, “I shouldn’t have just taken her like that.”

“You said tonight,” is the first thing out of John’s mouth. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “Just now, you said you had a larger audience _tonight_. Do you...do this often?”

Sherlock looks down slowly, and shuffles his feet just very slightly. “Sometimes when she first cries you don’t wake up,” he admits “takes a lot of noise to wake an army doctor I suppose. So I take her and I play for her, and she usually calms down. Then I just put her back into her crib.”

John smiles slightly. “How many times have you done this?” He asks.

“A few times,” Sherlock says with a small shrug, “it works and it means you get more sleep so it seems worth it. Not like I was sleeping anyway.”

“You...really do that?” John asks, stifling a yawn and blinking at Sherlock a little curiously, “For me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sherlock says, “I do it for Rosie.” He smirks a little at John, and then adds, “And for you too, I suppose. But mostly Rosie.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” John says with a shake of his head. And then he’s left staring at Sherlock, head leant to one side slightly as he takes in the sight that is his best friend, curly hair a mess and looking just a little more exhausted than usual, with his daughter perched on his hip, half asleep and mumbling into the shoulder of his too-expensive shirt.

“Now,” Sherlock says, “Are you going to let me play? Or would you rather just take her back to bed?”

John watches for a second more the way that Rosie’s tiny hands are grasping at Sherlock’s shirt, and the tiny fond glances Sherlock keeps casting down at the baby. “Go on,” he sighs softly, “Play us a song.”

“Us?” Sherlock asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Us,” John confirms, stepping into the room and settling himself down on the sofa, picking up Sherlock’s violin for him before he lays down properly and stretches out across the sofa with a small yawn. Sherlock settles Rosie back down onto her mat, before crossing the room to take the violin from John's outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” John mumbles tiredly. As he passes over the violin, he brushes his fingers against Sherlock’s wrist, knowing the man’s already forgotten John’s there now he’s focused on the violin again, and sees the way the detective turns towards him with his eyebrows raised. It takes Sherlock a second to register John’s words, and then he smiles faintly. Without a word, he steps away, back to his spot by the closed curtains.

There’s a moment of shuffling as Sherlock prepares himself, a faint clearing of his throat that draws out into the silence just a little too long. After years of knowing Sherlock and studying his behaviour, John almost thinks he’s nervous right now. He’s not shy about his playing, not nervous about his talents, the biggest show off John knows actually, but he doesn’t like it when people invade into his little routines and rituals with no warning. John’s sudden appearance has thrown him off just a little, he can tell. So he just leans his head further back against the arm of the sofa and lets his eyes slide shut slowly, waiting for Sherlock to be ready to start playing. And eventually, the music starts up.

The tune’s familiar, John thinks, the first few notes stirring up some memory he can’t quite place his finger on. It almost sounds like...Oh.

It’s the waltz Sherlock wrote all those months ago. The one for his and Mary’s wedding. The wedding feels like it was a lifetime ago, and yet the second he remembers the tune, he’s back there, on the dancefloor, Mary in his arms and laughing as they dance, their friends and family watching on, happy despite the day’s slightly terrifying events. But John’s eyes aren’t on her. Instead, he’s watching Sherlock play at the front of the room, eyes closed as he sinks into the music that he’s composed just for this moment, just for him. And then later, after Sherlock’s sudden announcement of Mary’s apparent pregnancy, he looks around and finds he can’t find the detective anywhere. And something inside of him feels that without Sherlock there it’s just not right. Something’s never quite been right.

The music continues to drift through the apartment for a while, finally drawing itself out into the last few slow notes, and John finds his mind heavy as sleep closes in around him again. He feels a single tear trail down his cheek, but finds himself too tired even to lift a hand to catch it, just tips his head sideways into one of the soft sofa cushions and lets his eyes slide closed. Another tune starts up, not one of Sherlock’s one, Bach if John’s remembering correctly, and as sleep weighs down on his already fuzzy mind, John could almost swear he hears Sherlock chuckle just faintly over the sound of the violin before everything melts away.

*****

When John wakes hours later, he’s alone, and the flat’s far quieter. Sherlock’s violin is laid out across the coffee table, and Rose’s mat is still on the floor but there’s no sign of either of them anywhere.

With a yawn he pushes himself upright, wincing at the stiffness in his limbs from sleeping on the couch, and groans when his shoulder clicks faintly, still not quite right after that injury from all those years back. There’s no sign of Sherlock in the kitchen, and so he figures Sherlock must have gotten at least some sleep the night before, and so he heads past Sherlock’s room without knocking for fear of disturbing him, and heads straight upstairs to his own room, his slightly too long pajama trousers dragging on the floor as he walks.

He pushes his door open and then reaches around inside for the lightswitch. Only as he flicks it on does he pause for a second. Didn’t he leave the door open behind him when he went downstairs last night? Sherlock must have shut it again when he took Rosie to bed after John fell asleep on the sofa. So John just shrugs and steps into the bedroom, and then pauses. The sight he’s greeted by isn’t one he’d expected, and he finds a tiny smile crossing his face as he stares into the room.

Sherlock is collapsed across John’s bed at a weird angle, long limbs splayed in every direction and his feet dangling off the edge, his face pressed sideways into the pillows. Rosie, meanwhile, is peacefully fast asleep in her crib. John stares at his flatmate for a second longer, trying to work out exactly what he’s doing there. Sherlock’s strange sleeping habits are no longer even slightly surprising to John. The man will sleep anywhere apart from his bed on the rare occasions he does sleep. After cases he’ll crash on the kitchen or living room floor, or in the back of cabs, or even, just once, draped across the coffee table as if that was even slightly a normal thing to be sleeping on. But yet John’s not sure he can remember a time Sherlock's ever slept in his room before. In fact, the detective rarely ever even sets foot into John’s room, only doing so to wake John early for cases they’ve been suddenly called to, or to ask if he’s bought the groceries they’re missing or made tea when Mrs Hudson hasn’t. Seeing him there isn’t too surprising or uncomfortable, though. Over all the years, especially in the last few months, they’ve grown closer and closer. John’s forgotten, at his point, where his space ends and Sherlock’s space begins. The only time he’s truly reminded of it, he supposes, is when Sherlock barricades off half the kitchen as his own space for the experiments he doesn’t want John watching him doing, and even then those boundaries are blurred at best, and easily crossed with the promise of takeaway food or a mug of warm tea that John’s learned how to make just perfect for Sherlock (though the stubborn bastard will never admit to liking it quite as much as his facial features suggest he does). So John just shuffles further into his bedroom until he’s by the side of his bed, and reaches a hand out until it makes contact with Sherlock’s shoulder.

Touch didn’t use to come so easy to the two of them. Sherlock’s jumpy at the best of times, and now, after everything they went through with Moriarty, and then with Eurus, John’s therapist is pretty sure they’ve both got, in her words, the worst cases of PTSD she’s seen in a long time. And despite how much trust John knows he’d put in Sherlock, how much he fully admits to himself at this point that he’d trust Sherlock with both his life and Rosie’s, the urge to shy away from human connection in their darkest moments still lingers in the both of them. It’s taken long enough for them to get this comfortable with each other, to find boundaries between them that fit just right, and even now, as he stands there in the bedroom, handing gently shaking Sherlock’s shoulder, it feels, to John, like a privilege to feel the reassuring stability of a warm but bony shoulder that is so remarkably Sherlock in every possible way under the calloused surface of his own hand. In moments like this, the quiet ones, in between the times when Rosie will cry for hours on end for no reason or Sherlock will hide himself away with a supposed migraine or start pacing anxiously to take out just a little of the energy that build relentlessly inside him at all times, John thinks maybe he’s found it, the happy ending he’s been searching for since he returned from war.

Then Sherlock stirs under his hand with an over-dramatised spluttering noise, obnoxious from the second he wakes as per usual, and then falls silent for a second in which John can almost hear that strange and brilliant mind of his working to decipher exactly where he is and what’s going on. Finally, he lifts his face from the pillows and rolls over onto his back.

“Oh, John, hello,” Sherlock says, his tone of voice completely devoid of any recognition of the fact he’s not waking where he usually should be, “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” John says, before glancing down at the watch he never removed from his wrist the night before, “Half eight.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, sitting upright as he speaks, “Good morning, then. Case?”

“I...what? No. No case yet,” John says, “Hey, what are you doing in my bed?”

Sherlock looks around himself, as though this still all seems like any completely ordinary morning to him. “You fell asleep,” he says eventually, “didn’t feel like waking you so I just put Rosie to bed. I assumed leaving her alone in the room was a bad idea, though, so naturally I stayed here to ensure her safety.”

Not for the first time in the last twenty four hours, and certainly not for the first time in the last few weeks, John’s hit by the realisation that Sherlock isn’t as bad at parenting as either of them had expected him to be. He’s taken to it naturally, like a duck to water, easily fitting Rosie into the routine he so stubbornly refuses to change for anyone else. It’s fascinating, really, just as everything new he still continues to learn about his flatmate is to John.

“You could have just woken me,” he says instead of relaying any of his thoughts out loud. Sherlock can probably decipher exactly what he’s thinking anyway, but it saves them both the embarrassment of acknowledging that if John keeps his rambling thoughts to himself most times.

Sherlock shrugs, and then winces, reminding John vividly of the injury on his back he sustained just a few days ago after chasing a criminal rather recklessly through several particularly busy roads. “You were asleep,” Sherlock says, “I’d rather let you actually get some sleep for once.” And then he’s getting up off of the bed, absent-mindedly smoothing long fingers over the creases of the shirt he never took off the night before, and making for the bedroom door. “Cup of tea?” He asks over his shoulder as he goes.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll put the kettle on in a second,” John replies, still too distracted by the brilliance that is his best friend to properly listen in to the conversation.

“No, I meant I’ll make it,” Sherlock replies, “Want one?”

“Oh,” John says, a little dumbstruck. First Sherlock is apparently suddenly respectful of the sleeping routines of others in the flat, and now he’s making tea for others? John’s not entirely sure he was thorough enough last time he checked the man for concussion  
“Thanks,” he says, “No sugar.”

“I know.” The reply floats up from where Sherlock’s already halfway down the stairs and descending further, and John smiles privately to himself before he busies himself with waking Rosie for the day and lifting her from the softness of her crib.

Later, when he finally gets downstairs after the usual fuss of changing Rosie into new clothes for the day, he finds Sherlock in his chair, fingers steepled against his chin and his eyes vacant and flickering very slightly as he ventures around inside his mind palace. What he could be searching for or storing away at this time in the morning John’s got no idea, but he leaves him to it, knowing he’ll get no reply if he tries to talk to him anyway, and settles Rosie in her highchair so he can sort out breakfast for her instead. There are two mugs of tea on the kitchen table, which is, thankfully, clear of experiments for now, and John picks up the garish ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away’ mug that Lestrade bought for him at last year’s Secret Santa, sipping at the tea as he checks the contents of the fridge. It’s painfully empty, even the milk is on its last legs, and when John checks there are several brightly coloured post-its stuck to the outside bearing lists of things that need buying or restocking. He grabs the pot of admittedly unappealing looking baby food from the bottom shelf, below the tub that he really hopes has been labelled ‘ears’ as a joke, and then slams the door shut again.

“Need to go shopping,” he says out loud out of habit. He’s gotten as bad at speaking to empty air as Sherlock has always been.

“I know,” comes a reply he wasn’t expecting, and he looks over to see Sherlock up and pacing, hands now at his sides, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his thighs. As he watches, Sherlock whirls around and heads into the kitchen to join them, seeking out the warmth of his own mug of tea.

“I can go out later,” John says, “Don’t worry about it. Sure you’ve got clients to deal with today.”

“No,” Sherlock says, surprising John yet again, “They can wait until later if they must, but I’ve got a feeling today’s going to particularly dry. We should go together.”

“What?”

“That’s what families do, isn’t it?” Sherlock says, nose scrunched in that little way he does when he’s trying to remember something he’s most definitely deleted, “Do the boring little things together to make it more fun? We could even take Watson to that little park with the swings she likes on the way.”

John’s taken aback by that for a second, and then his mind catches up and replays the words he’s just heard. “Family?” He checks, and sees the slight anxious tensing of Sherlock’s shoulders under the peacock blue dressing gown he’s now wearing.

“Oh, yes, I suppose that was the wrong word for whatever’s going on here,” Sherlock says with a vague wave of his hand, “I just thought -”

“No,” John cuts him off, hating, as always, every second he has to hear that slightest hint of self doubt creeping into Sherlock’s tone, “You’re right. It’s not conventional, but this is family now. For us, at least. That’s the point of the rules, isn’t it? To try and make some sort of functioning family unit for Rosie.”

Sherlock smiles, an actual smile that reaches his eyes and creases the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he says, “I think so.”

John smiles back for a second, aware how strange they both must seem to whoever Mycroft definitely has spying on them now, standing in their kitchen just smiling at each other, one in a ridiculously expensive dressing gown and clutching at a mug decorated with a pattern of treble clefs, and the other in the world’s scruffiest pajamas, with his own mug in one hand and baby food in the other. They are, he realises, the perfect picture of the mundane domestic life neither of them ever wanted. Then he remembers something, and turns towards the other wall.

“That reminds me,” he says, setting down his mug and replacing it with the pen on a string that’s attached to the notice board. He leans in towards the list of house rules that’s now pinned there, and strikes out the first line with the blotchy ink of the biro. “I think that’s one rule that can be edited,” he admits.

And when he turns back around, Sherlock’s eyes are shining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in one day? yeah i'm invested in this one (or possibly just insanely bored at home, who knows)


	3. rule two - the evidence box

Rule two: No letting Rosie play with things from the evidence box

It’s another one of London’s typical foggy mornings, the damp air pressing up against the windows and drowning the flat in darkness when John wakes. Life has continued onwards at its usual pace mostly, changed up only by the smallest of Sherlock’s strange actions in what John can only assume is him making some sort of attempt at improving at ‘family life’ as he now insists on labelling it. He’s doing the shopping more often, and keeping his experiments neater in the kitchen and setting things on fire far less often, so John’s not complaining. If anything, it’s nice to see that he’s not struggling too much with having Rosie in the flat, plus he seems to be taking more care of himself at the same time as well.

He makes his way downstairs, leaving Rosie asleep in her crib for a little longer, and finds Sherlock at the kitchen table, one of his reading lights set up to combat the gloominess of the flat, sorting through stacks and stacks of case files. Recently, the work they’ve been getting has been dwindling, and the detective’s irritation has been steadily growing. Currently, it’s at an all time high, his anger palpable in the already stuffy air of the kitchen. They’re reaching dangerous territory here, John can tell.

“Nothing good today?” He asks carefully, stepping around Sherlock to get to the fridge.

“Criminals are getting lazy,” Sherlock remarks, “God it’s so _dull_ when they get lazy.”

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last either, John finds himself just a little concerned by the inner workings of his friend’s brain. The addiction to cases, the thrill he gets from chasing down criminals, the relief near death experiences bring him; it’s all too risky, too dangerous, too strained a lifestyle to ever be sustainable. But John has always known this, since that first day, ever since he was introduced to a man who knew everything about a person from a single glance and brought riding crops to morgues for some inexplicable reason. And the problem is that John knows he’s the same, that he has the same rush of excitement at danger, and Sherlock can tell. He can see it in the way those piercing eyes track his reaction to every case detail, a waiting game, a competition to see which of them will jump out of their seat first at the announcement of a new case. Sherlock is always a ticking time bomb, a gas leak slowly filling a room waiting for a spark to blow the whole thing up. And John loves the risk.

Sherlock slams another case down onto one of his piles, and John glances over his shoulder, noting the way the pile of cases Sherlock has labelled as ‘four and unders’ is growing. Looking back up at Sherlock, he sees the way his friend’s face is set like stone, jaw clenched just a little and the corner of his mouth twitching irritably, creases on his forehead from the way his eyebrows are furrowed. John can only hope that Lestrade calls them up with a new case today that might be suitable enough for Sherlock’s pickiness to at least get him out of the flat for a few hours. For now, though, he just puts the kettle on and then wanders over to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder at the piles of cases.

“I take it that means you’ve solved all of these already, then?” He asks, waving a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder at all the piles.

“Of course,” Sherlock replies haughtily, “It’s child’s play. Even Rosie could answer these ones.”

“Right,” John says, taking that to mean that to anyone else, including himself, the answers Sherlock has reached will be as baffling as they will also somehow be correct. He puts one of his hands onto Sherlock’s shoulder as he leans further over to reach for a case file with the other, and instantly feels Sherlock slump a little under his touch.

“This one?” John asks, flipping open the case file and looking through the notes. There’s a suggestion of a suspect written in at the bottom by Lestrade, over which Sherlock has written ‘wrong’ in all capitals. Sherlock lazily reaches out to take it from him and opens it up, nodding to himself as he rereads through the details.

“The mother-in-law,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Did it for the money, and to stop herself getting caught out on a decade’s worth of fraud, scam, and cheating.”

“How” John asks, leaning further over to try and guess from the notes, “Let me guess, the colour of her jacket?”

Sherlock laughs softly, and then leans backwards until his head gently hits John’s chest. “No,” he says, “From her shoes.”

“What?”

There’s an amused shake of the detective’s head that sends a few stray curls flying around him. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “Far too complex for you I’m sure.”

Before, in what feels like a previous life by now, John would have felt insulted by that, or at least a little stung. Now he’s just glad to see the little creases of Sherlock’s smile back on his face again. And so he just picks up another case and then another, letting Sherlock explain each one to him with his usual haughtily amused air, and John feels the way that Sherlock, without even really realising it, relaxes backwards against him, the creases in his forehead slowly smoothing out.

They’re like this now, John realises, but he doesn’t know exactly when it happened or when they crossed this line. All he knows is that recently he’s felt Sherlock getting more comfortable little by little, getting over his past reservations maybe. All he knows is from the little Sherlock’s admitted to him, something about feeling bad for forgetting Redbeard, and that Sherlock seems to be letting himself finally start connecting to people again. He can only imagine what Mycroft would have to say about it all, and John only hopes for a while that Sherlock just allows himself to not keep himself as closed off as he usually is.

“I bet Donovan didn’t get any of this,” John says slyly after a moment, and feels the way Sherlock sits up straighter in interest, “Why not call up Scotland Yard. You know you love to boast, plus I’d rather it was them that has to do the paperwork for these cases and not us.”

“Oh, but talking to them is so dull,” Sherlock huffs, “It’s like talking to a brick wall. Or to Rosie.”

“Hey,” John says in defence of his own daughter.

Sherlock cracks a wonky grin. “Ah, Watson knows I’m only joking,” he says, looking down at the case files, “But John, these aren’t achievements. These were easy.”

“For you,” John says, “But not for anyone else. Might as well at least tell them how you solved it.”

Sherlock lets out a slow breath. “I suppose you’re right,” he hums thoughtfully, “I didn’t even get to tell you about the one where Lestrade thought the dog was a suspect.”

John laughs softly. “Tell me about it later,” he tells him with a smile, “I’ve got to to get to a therapy appointment soon. I’ll go get dressed and wake Rosie and then I should be going.”

“You’re still seeing that woman?” Sherlock asks interestedly.

“You make it sound like I’m dating her.”

Sherlock leans away a little, John instantly finding himself missing the warmth of his wiry frame pressed against him, and then twists a little in his seat to look at him. “Last time you went to see her you wore your favourite cable knit jumper, the one you only wear when you want to look nice but also casual, or if you need it as some form of comfort. And you bought a new aftershave last week, something you only ever do if you’re trying to impress someone or catch their attention. You don’t go to many other places, no offence, therefore she’s your most likely target.”

“Target? Jesus, Sherlock what do you think dating is? You make it sound like I’m out on some sort of hunt.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” Sherlock drawls sarcastically. His tone is light enough, but that twitch at the edge of his mouth is back again, and he turns away like he doesn’t want to look at John any more. “So, is she nice then?”

“Sorry, who?” John asks, utterly baffled by the sudden change in topic Sherlock’s started.

“Your new therapist, John, is she nice?”

“Uh, yes, I suppose,” John shrugs, “She’s not your sister in disguise, for one, and she’s good at her job.”

“And you intend to court her?”

“Sorry - court her? Have I woken up in the 1800s?” John laughs, “And not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t ‘intend to court her’. She’s a good therapist and I don’t want to lose that by making anything less than professional.”

“But you do have feelings for her.” Sherlock’s voice is getting drier and less joking now, and thwack, another case file slams down onto the table.

“No!” John protests, “Sherlock I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you’re wrong, your deductions must be off.” The second he says it he regrets it. Sherlock is never wrong, whether John likes it or not. Hell, half the time he can tell John’s interested in a woman before he’s even figured it out for himself. In fact, for someone with an apparent complete lack of interest in relationships, he sure does love spending every moment of his free time analysing the living daylights out of John’s love life or lack thereof. But if there’s one thing Sherlock really hates, it’s being told he’s wrong, especially by someone who knows he probably isn’t.

“Sorry, sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

“No, no,” Sherlock cuts him off suddenly, “Maybe you’re right. The deductions were wrong. Maybe my calculations were...off.” He pushes his chair back across the kitchen floor with a horribly loud screaming noise, and then gets up to his feet.

“Sherlock that’s not what I -”

“No, it is, it’s fine,” Sherlock says, scooping up a few case files randomly, “Maybe you’re right, maybe I should call Lestrade, brag to him a little. That’s what I do best, right?” He turns and stalks off into the living room with the case files tucked under one arm, leaving John alone in the kitchen, wondering exactly what he did wrong this time. Things have been going so well recently and now...John sighs angrily and walks right past Sherlock and upstairs to get Rosie from her crib.

When he comes back downstairs a while later, dressed specifically in his favourite jumper and his newest pair of trousers just to irritate Sherlock, his flatmate’s curled up in a tiny little ball in his chair, half upside down with his fingers pressed to his chin and his face looking unnaturally flat, like he’s deliberately forced all emotion off of it, eyes pressed too harshly closed.

“Sherlock,” John says, probably just a little too loudly, and sees the way he visibly startles but defiantly keeps his eyes shut and posture closed off. He’s back to sulking like a child like he used to, it would seem. “I’ve still got to go out. Are you okay keeping an eye on Rosie or do I need to leave her with Mrs Hudson for the morning?”

Sherlock opens up one eye, looks at him, and then lets out such a long sigh that he visibly deflates. “She can stay here,” he says, “I told you I’d take care of her today and I don’t break my promises. Not anymore.”

“It’s really not a problem if you can’t,” John tells him, “If you’re going to be too busy with experiments or thinking or...whatever.”

“She’s a baby, John,” Sherlock mutters, “If I can take down Moriarty’s crime ring while also being tortured by the Serbian government, I think I can look after her for a while.”

“Okay, well...can you get her breakfast? I’ve really gotta get going.”

Sherlock finally then untangles himself from the seat and stands up, holding out his arms towards John. “Yeah, I can,” He says, taking Rosie from him when John slowly passes him over.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” he says, “Look I’m really sorry for what I said and -”

“I said it’s fine,” Sherlock says, shifting Rosie more comfortably in his arms, “Let’s just not talk about it, okay?”

John looks at him for a few more seconds, and then nods. “Okay,” he says, “I gotta go but I’ll see you later, then.”

Sherlock nods concisely, and before John’s even left the flat he’s turned on his heel to carry Rosie into the kitchen, muttering something lowly to her in a way that sounds vaguely conspiratorial. John leaves the flat in a haze of confusion, torn by Sherlock’s conflicting moods and his ability to switch them so quickly and seemingly effortlessly. No matter how their relationship develops, it seems he can always count on Sherlock to confuse things with whatever he’s keeping to himself in that mind palace of his. He puts out a hand to flag down a cab just outside 221B, and as he climbs in he tries to shake all remnants of the heaviness of Sherlock’s mood from his mind. He gives the driver the address for his therapist, and then rests his head back against the worn weather of the headrest, hoping the steady thrumming of the engine will shake some of the doubt from his mind.

Therapy is as stressful and yet also comforting as it always is, but throughout the session he can’t quite get the memory of his and Sherlock’s earlier fight, if it can even really be called a fight, out of his head. It doesn’t take long for his therapist to pick up on it. But though she tries to get him to speak about it, John can’t bring himself to, mostly because he doesn’t even know enough exactly about what happened to put it into words. He can’t work out exactly what he did that upset Sherlock so much, or what it is that’s bothering the detective apparently even more than their complete lack of good cases, and the more he thinks about it, the more it bugs him. By the time the session’s finally over, he’s both desperate and terrified at the same time to get back to the flat.

But when he finally gets in there, he’s instantly greeted by the smell of Mrs Hudson’s signature lasagne wafting through the rooms and when he reaches the door to their apartment it’s to the sound of Sherlock laughing faintly within. The familiarity of it all relaxes him a little, and he steps into the flat with a tiny smile on his face. He steps in through the door curiously, assuming Sherlock must still be on the phone and laughing at the Scotland Yard detectives. But his laughter isn’t the usual mocking tone he uses with Donovan, nor the lighter and yet still just a touch too boastful laugh he occasionally shares with Lestrade. Instead it’s just a light huffing sound, accompanied by the sound of what seems to be metal against clinking against metal. John steps into the living room curiously and… Oh.

Sherlock’s in his chair, Rosie on his knee and supported by one of his arms, his other hand holding a set of keys up above her head, shaking them lightly. Rosie’s watching in awe, eyes stretched wide, mouth twitching in amusement at the light jingling sounds and the flashing of light across the metal, her arms making tiny movements now and again as if some part of her wants to reach up and grab them. As John walks in, she lets out a small giggle of delight, and John doesn’t fail to notice the way Sherlock’s entire face lights up at that.

He’s reminded of the first time Rosie smiled at Sherlock, when John had only just moved back into 221B. Things had still been rocky, John still wasn’t sure Sherlock would be able to cope with the changes having a baby around was going to bring to his usual schedule, and the detective was just a little too stubborn to make any large changes that might make things just a little easier. He’d been pacing the living room one day, back and forth over one spot until John was sure he was already wearing down a path on the brand new carpet. John, watching from the kitchen door in slight alarm, had had Rosie in his arms, her still crying faintly after a recent tantrum, when Sherlock suddenly turned from the route he’d been pacing the last half an hour, and strode towards John, holding out his arms and taking the baby from him more on instinct than for any particular reason. Confused, John had watched as Sherlock returned to his pacing, now with Rosie in his arms, bouncing her very slightly whenever she hiccupped a little and her crying threatened to start back up again. Then suddenly he’d drawn to a complete halt with a declaration of, “of course, the brother,” so loudly John had expected Rosie to be startled. Instead, Rosie had let out a tiny gurgling noise, and then all but beamed up at the detective, causing Sherlock’s entire body to freeze up, and John had expected to have a baby thrust back into his arms and to watch Sherlock disappear in panic to his room. Instead, the detective had looked down at Rosie, then raised her closer up to his face and smiled back at her.

“She likes me, John,” he’d said, amazement in his voice, “She actually likes me.” And right there and then, John had known that they could make everything work out.

Now, he just wanders into the living room, waiting until Sherlock notices him there and looks up at him slowly. For a second John feels his chest tighten, worried that Sherlock’s mood from earlier is going to continue on, but Sherlock seems as frustratedly indifferent as ever, seemingly having completely forgotten whatever went on in the kitchen this morning, and then he smiles vaguely at John.

“Did you steal Mrs Hudson’s car keys?” John asks to break the silence, raising an eyebrow at him. “You know she gets annoyed about that.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, shaking the keys again before reaching out one long, graceful finger to tap the end of Rosie’s nose affectionately, “These are from that last case: the guy with all the stolen vans. Remember, the really boring case?”

“The stolen vans filled with DNA of missing people?” John asks, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t find it that boring. And hang on, are you letting her play with evidence? Rule two, Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, “But look, she’s having fun. And it’s not like these are the most dangerous things in that box. Unless you'd rather I let her play with the throwing stars we confiscated from that assassin last week? Oh, or the rucksack full of blood stained clothes we found near the Tower of London?” He smirks faintly at John like he knows he’s already about to get away with this, and John grumbles softly at just how soft living with Sherlock has made him somehow.

“You were supposed to turn both of those items into the police,” John reminds him, “I really don’t want Lestrade raiding this place again. Anderson made a right mess of the kitchen last time. Couldn’t find the spoons for weeks.”

Sherlock shrugs, and then Rosie lets out an impatient whine and he bounces her a few times on his knee and swings the keys above her head again. “Tell Graham I’ll meet with him later in the week,” he says after a moment, “I’ll give him his stuff back then. I’m done with it anyway.”

“Greg,” John says.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hums.

“You do it on purpose, right?” John checks, “You do know Lestrade’s name is Greg, not Graham or Geoff or anything else?”

Sherlock waves the hand with the keys in it in a vague gesture, Rosie giggling again at the noise he makes. “Names,” He scoffs, “Trivialities. Takes up too much valuable space.”

“You remember my name,” John reminds him, “And Rosie’s.”

Sherlock looks up with an incredulous look on his face. “Because those names matter,” he says, “Really, John, do you not understand anything? What is it like in your brain? Is the emptiness peaceful?”

“We matter to you?” John asks, skipping over the string of insults as he’s learned to do. He doesn’t need to ask, not really. He already knows the answer, knows it in the way Sherlock has gone out of his way again and again to make the flat a home for all three of them, and the way the detective, slowly, is changing his stubborn ways to be more accommodating. There’s not many people he’d do that for, John knows.

“Of course,” Sherlock says simply, “You really do ask the most asinine questions. It wouldn’t do for me to forget the names of the two most important people in my life. Now, take your daughter back, I need to do some thinking and while she is admittedly adorable she is also incredibly distracting.”

For a second John feels his brain malfunction again in the way it’s been doing more and more recently every time Sherlock does or says anything so completely un-Sherlock. And yet the detective is just standing up to pass Rosie over towards him, face completely devoid of any indicator of what he’s just said, and when John finally reaches up to take the baby from him, Sherlock looks at him in confusion.

“Stop thinking so much,” Sherlock says, tossing the keys sideways into the open evidence box at the side of the room, “What is it now?”

“You said...Are we really the most important people in your life?” John asks, shifting Rosie onto one arm more comfortably.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock says, “Who else do you think would be?”

“Your brother?” John suggests, “Parents? The sister you’ve started visiting again?”

Sherlock scrunches his face up a little at the mention of Eurus. “No,” he says, “You and Rosie. _Just_ you and Rosie. I could do without Mycroft’s meddling and...everything Eurus has done - but I couldn’t live without you and Rosie now.” He shakes his head like he’s just stated the most obvious fact in the world, and John’s left feeling like he’s got whiplash from how quick Sherlock’s moods can change.

“Can we talk about this morning?” He asks, “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed a little wound up. Look if there’s something bugging you, we can talk, okay?”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, “Please just leave it.”

“No, Sherlock! No, alright? Because I want to make sure you’re happy okay so please just tell me what’s wrong so I can help!” Rosie whines at the sudden noise of John raising his voice, and he hushes her gently before turning back to Sherlock with a lowered voice. “Please just talk to me, sometimes I feel like we’re really close again and then you just go back to… I don’t even know.”

“It’s not something I can talk about right now, okay?” Sherlock sighs, “Especially not to you.”

“Sherlock -”

“Just leave it, please?” Sherlock says, fixing him with a stern glare, and then turns to stalk into the kitchen with a sigh. He’s wearing his Belstaff inside for some reason, John realises, something he only does when he needs that little extra bit of grounding, and he’s hunched over a little, frustrated but also...sad, and confused even maybe. In all the years he’s known Sherlock, he’s gotten a little better at deciphering his body language, the most open part of who he is most of the time somehow, and yet still now he remains a mystery. John watches him retreat, and starts to pace the kitchen floor, and then he looks down at Rosie and makes some sort of decision with a sigh.

*****

“Sherlock,” John calls an hour later, after a couple of phone calls and decisions have been made, stepping back into the living room, “I’m sending Rosie to Molly’s for the afternoon. She’s off work for the day and needs something to do anyway.”

Sherlock paces to the kitchen door to meet him and looks at him confusedly. “Why?” He asks, “Are you going back out? Oh,” his face darkens slightly, “Date?”

“No, I…” John trails off. Dates again. Why is Sherlock always bringing up dates? “What’s this about Sherlock? You know what, nevermind, we can talk later once I’ve dropped Rosie off with Molly, okay?”

Sherlock’s face stays blank, staring at John impassively like he’s trying to decide whether or not it’s even worth continuing the conversation. “Okay,” he says eventually, before circling back around into the kitchen and instantly disappearing amongst a whirlwind of noise as experiments are moved aside and ceramic in cupboards is jostled together.

For a moment, John watches what he can see from around the door, the base of Sherlock’s coat swirling around him as he stalks around, his head appearing occasionally as he reaches up for things from cupboards or crouches to retrieve things that fall to the floor. Then Rosie whines again in his arms, shifting restlessly, and John reluctantly tears his gaze away from the confusing mess that is his flatmate to gently hush her.

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, “Let’s get you to Auntie Molly’s house, okay? Yeah? You like going to her house, don’t you?” Rosie gurgles something quietly, reaching up a tiny hand to catch a loose strand of John’s hair between her fingers, and he laughs softly. “Yeah, let’s get going,” he tells her gently, “Your uncle Sherlock and I need to have a bit of a conversation today, I think.”

There’s a huff from the direction of the kitchen that tells him Sherlock’s definitely listening in, even above the sound of what sounds like glasses now knocking together, and John shakes his head in faint amusement as he scoops up one of the bags of Rosie’s things they keep laying around and throws it over his other shoulder. He checks his pockets quickly for his phone and wallet, Molly’s isn’t far but he’ll take a cab with Rosie anyway, and then heads for the door.

“Back in a bit!” He calls over his shoulder as he leaves. There’s no reply from the kitchen.

*****

“Everything okay?” Molly asks as she takes Rosie from him on her doorstep a while later, “You look a bit...sad.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock’s just in one of his moods again,” John sighs, “I thought I’d try and spend the evening alone with, you know, get him to talk.”

Molly smiles slightly. “Well, good luck with that,” she says, “Not sure anyone’s ever gotten Sherlock Holmes to talk simply before.”

“You might be right,” John sighs, “Just call me when you wanna bring Rosie back, okay?”

“Yeah,” Molly says with a nod, before turning her head downwards to smile at Rosie, “We’re gonna have fun,” she says, “Maybe go to the park.”

“Sounds good,” John says, “Thanks Molly, you’ve really helped me out.”

“I told you on the phone, it’s not a problem,” she says, “I am one of her godmothers, it’s sort of what we do.”

“Well I’m glad we made you godmother,” John smiles softly, and then passes over Rosie’s bag before he turns to go. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he calls to his daughter and Molly, and watches for a second as Molly pulls the door of her house shut before he turns and wanders back up the road, opting to walk the distance back instead of paying for yet another taxi.

He stops by Sherlock’s favourite chip shop on the way back, picking up a late lunch for both of them, partly because he’s hoping it’ll warm Sherlock up to him a little again, but also mostly because he can’t quite remember the last time he saw Sherlock eat, and that’s never a good sign. Sometimes, he feels he and Sherlock make a pretty good parenting team. Other times he feels like he’s got another larger, stroppier child to deal with.

When he finally gets back to 221B for the second time that day, the handles of the cheap plastic bag the chips are in biting into his fingers and his legs aching just a little from keeping up a slightly too fast pace the whole way back, there’s a haunting violin tune drifting through the air.

“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson coos from her doorway as she hurries over to look up at him as he’s halfway up the stairs, “Whatever did you say to Sherlock? He’s in such a mood.”

“Trust me, Mrs Hudson, I’ve been asking myself the same question,” John sighs, “What’s he been up to anyway? Just playing?”

“Oh, he was crashing and stomping around up there, you should’ve heard the racket. It sounded like we’d been invaded by a herd of elephants. I was considering calling Mycroft but then he distracted himself with the violin. It’s better although -” She’s cut off by a horrible screaming noise, like a strangled cat, the unmistakable sound of Sherlock irritably dragging the bow back and forth across the violin strings too quickly and with no purpose, and she sighs irritably. “Although he keeps doing that,” She finishes her sentence with a huff, “Please talk to him. He’s doing my head in.”

“I’ll try, Mrs Hudson,” John sighs, “I’ve got chips. Maybe that’ll appease him.”

“Hmm, good luck,” she says, retreating back into her own flat as John hurries upstairs to the sound of Sherlock’s violin screeching horribly once again.

“What are you doing?” He calls as he steps into the flat, “You’ll break the bloody violin if you’re not careful!”

The screeching comes to a halt, and John watches Sherlock turn in his spot near the window, and regard him for a second, before his eyes flicker down to the bag in his hand.

“You bought chips,” he says, sounding almost pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah, well, don’t think I haven’t noticed you not eating again,” John sighs, “And if we’re gonna talk we might as well have lunch too.” He carries the bag over into the kitchen to serve the chips up onto plates, hearing the relieving sound of Sherlock finally putting the violin down as he does so. Sherlock’s always happy to just eat chips straight out of the tray they come in, and John knows he mocks him for putting them on plates, but neat habits never die, and outside of the military he finds some need for some form of regulation and control at some point in their crazy lives.

“Do we have to talk?” Sherlock sighs, “We could just not.”

“And have you stay in a strop for the next week?” John huffs, “No thanks. Last time that happened you shouted at the parents of the victim of our biggest case and put the mother into a panic attack. I’d rather avoid that if possible.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, flopping down onto the sofa with a soft thump, blowing his breath upwards to blow curls out of his face with a huff as he does so, with all the air of a teenager throwing a tantrum. John watches him carefully out of the corner of his eye as he folds the plastic bag and the chip packaging neatly away and puts them into the bin, before carrying them into the living room.

“I didn’t think you’d want fish too at this time of the day,” he says.

Sherlock, head now resting against the back of the sofa with his eyes closed, shakes his head into the cushions very faintly, before drawing his legs up onto the sofa in front of him and looping his arms around himself. He’s disappearing into his head again, closing himself off, and John’s not about to let that happen, not again, not when he’s sure it’s so important that they have to talk this time.

“Come on Sherlock,” he says, putting the two plates of chips down onto the coffee table before he heads towards the sofa, “Let’s talk about this, okay?”

“What is there to talk about?” Sherlock mutters, curling himself up onto his one half of the sofa as John sits down on the other side. His jaw’s clenched tight again and he’s only looking at John out of the corners of his eyes, flicking his eyes back and forth from him like he doesn’t want to be caught looking.

“You’re acting weird,” John sighs, “And it’s about me going on dates...I think. Even I can deduce that, okay? I haven’t seen you act like this since...The Woman, maybe. So just tell me exactly what’s bothering you. Are you, are you jealous or-”

“No!” Sherlock snaps, “No, I’m just…” he trails off and reaches out with long fingers to grab hold of a single chip from his plate, distracting himself by eating it so he doesn’t have to answer for a while. “I’m not jealous I’m...scared? I think. I don’t like this. I don’t like emotions, John!” He balls a hand into a fist against his side irritably, rubbing his knuckles back and forth across the rough material of his coat, and lifts his head up to look away as defiantly as he can while also currently looking like someone’s crushing his world around him.

“I know,” John says as soothingly as he can, “I know. But it’s okay. Just...What are you scared of?”

“I...no, it’s stupid,” Sherlock mutters. “What?” He asks when John lets out a small huff of laughter.

“It’s just, you’re Sherlock Holmes. If there’s one thing you aren’t it’s stupid,” he says, “So just explain it to me, okay?”

Sherlock looks over at him and smiles very faintly, but then nods. “Okay,” he says slowly, “Well, you like women.”

“Yes.”

“Ssh.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“You like women,” Sherlock repeats, “And there hasn’t been one since Mary but...I assume that at some point you’ll start dating again, and even if it takes a while it’s only a matter of time until you move on to someone else and you move back out and I...I don’t want to be alone again. I’m already too dependent on your company, and Rosie’s. It’s like I always say, John, caring is weakness and...I care about you.” He admits the last part in a weak voice, and then turns his head away from John, curling in on himself even more.

“Oh,” John says softly, “Oh. Sherlock, why didn’t you just talk to me about this sooner?” He can’t remember a time he’s ever seen Sherlock looking quite so vulnerable and sad, and the sight of it does something strange to his heart, makes it trip over a few beats and then stumble to catch up, at the same time his stomach stirs uneasily. His flatmate is silent, reaching for the plate of chips again to busy his hands while John thinks over the things he’s been dwelling on late at night recently when he just can’t sleep, ideas he hasn’t bothered to entertain due to foolishness and downright stupidity, when the answer’s been staring him so obviously in the face this entire time.

“I think I’m done with it, definitely for now at least,” John says eventually, and Sherlock looks around with his nose scrunched in confusion again. “Dating, I mean,” John says, “Hasn’t gone too well for me, has it? And anyway, I don’t want to be constantly bringing women in and out of Rosie’s life. Right now I think I’m just...okay with this.”

“This?” Sherlock asks.

“You,” John says, “Just having you here with me and Rosie it’s...it’s enough right now.”

“But John you know I’m-”

“Married to your work, yes,” John says with a nod, “I’m not necessarily saying romantic, Sherlock, I’m just...whatever we have, whatever you want it to be, it’s enough for me. Whatever you want, whatever you decide, what we have is weird and totally unconventional but it works. Because...you’re not the only one who cares, okay?”

And there it is, everything John’s been thinking recently, out there in the open. And once it’s out there he suddenly feels as vulnerable as Sherlock looks right now, and probably as confused too. He could take it back, pretend he’s joking, snatch back all his weakness he’s just offered up to Sherlock, and for a moment he’s considering it as the detective sits as still and silent as ever. Then suddenly one of Sherlock’s hands darts sideways so it lands on top of John’s, fingers curving to cover his.

“Sherlock?” He asks quietly.

“Thinking,” Sherlock mumbles, and John feels the exact moment he slips backwards into his own head again, his hand relaxing slightly over John’s and his entire body relaxing just a tiny bit, the steady drumming of his pulse against John’s knuckles slowing, a change that would have been unnoticeable if it weren’t for their closeness. As he continues to roam his mind palace for whatever answer he seems to think is hidden in there, John looks over at Sherlock with a small smile, and then turns his hand under Sherlock’s to push their palms together and entwine their fingers. There’s no movement or any other sign of recognition from Sherlock, but John thinks he sees him relax further backwards into the sofa cushions, and then, after a long moment, he lowers his feet down to the floor and crosses his ankles with a sigh.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks eventually. The suddenness of it startles John. Usually Sherlock’s dives into his brain take a longer time, unless he’s on a particularly time sensitive case.

“Yes,” John says, “I’m sure.”

“You won’t get...bored?”

“No,” John says, “Sherlock I’ve thought about this, okay, so just trust me. I don’t think I’ve been more sure of anything since...I don’t know, since I decided to marry Mary.”

Sherlock looks over at him slowly, and John watches as a tiny smile makes its way across his face, corner of his mouth twitching nervously. “Thank you,” he says carefully, “I don’t know what I want but -”

“I’ll wait for as long as you need to decide,” John tells him, “And I’ll be happy with whatever you decide. Promise.”

“Okay,” Sherlock all but whispers, “Thank you.” His eyes are still a little glazed over, he’s distant and distracted as he’s thinking, and John gently nudges his knee against his.

“Chips are getting cold,” he says, and Sherlock silently reaches out to take hold of his plate and balances it on his knees instead, picking at the chips slowly.

“Crap telly?” John suggests, knowing that, if anything, Sherlock might appreciate the background noise for a little while. Beside him, Sherlock nods, though from the faraway look in his eyes John can barely tell if he’s actually properly listening to him or not, but John switches the telly on anyway, and settles further back against the sofa cushions as they eat in silence. Sherlock stays distant and quiet, not even reacting to the tv or shouting at the hosts of the show like he usually does, and once his food is finished he gets up without a word and carries his empty plate over to leave on the kitchen side.

“I’m going to my room, to think,” Sherlock says, “Please do feel free to come and get me if I haven’t resurfaced in a few hours.”

“Resurfaced?” John asks with a raised eyebrow.

“You heard me,” Sherlock says, “And I don’t like repeating myself.” He leans his head to one side as he looks at John for a second, and then turns and swirls out of the room as dramatically as he did that first day John met him at Bart’s morgue. He smiles fondly at the memory of that confusing day that would somehow go on to become the part of something he could never have expected in a million years, and then Sherlock’s bedroom door slams shut and he’s left alone, confused but also with his stomach alive with a species of butterfly he hasn’t felt in years. With a sigh that he knows makes him sound like a stupid lovesick teenager all over again, he flops backwards along the entire length of the sofa, and closes his eyes to focus on the growing warmth in the part of his heart he had long since thought to be dead and empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't like totally checked this for typos yet so i'll go back and do that at some point, but surprise i guess, angsty sherlock feels.  
> also, random sidenote, but it's weirdly nice to be writing a fic set in a place i actually know for once. so many of my other fandoms are american, it's nice to be able to write very britishly for once


	4. rule three - the crime scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the chapter ahead: brief mention of blood, injury, stabbings

Rule three: no bringing Rosie to crime scenes

The next few days pass at a similarly slow and uninteresting pace, each passing day marked only by the steady growth of Sherlock’s piles of case files deemed uninteresting and unworthy of his attention. Sherlock, though, remains seemingly impassive. He’s quiet and withdrawn, far from the usual noise and chaos that John’s used to as a side effect of Sherlock’s worst boredom. From his spot on the sofa, John can just about see into the kitchen, where the detective’s taken to spending much of his time, elbows leaning on the table amidst the disaster zone of paperwork, fingers steepled against his chin and his eyes half-closed. When John talks to him, he’ll usually lift his head to reply with a few words, when Rosie cries he’ll get to his feet seemingly without realising, and occasionally his hands will move through the air subconsciously like he’s sorting through things stored in his mind palace, but apart from that he’s weirdly still from the moment John finds him there in the morning to the time John takes himself to bed. Whether Sherlock’s even been sleeping, John has no idea. Whatever he’s thinking about, there seems to be enough of it for him to spend days working through, and John can’t help feeling just a little disappointed by the sudden distance that it’s put between them. He takes to spending more time out of the house with Rosie just to avoid the weird silence of his flatmate. It’s peaceful, though, at least.

And then one afternoon, just like that, the spell breaks.

John’s sprawled across the sofa where he’s been for the last few hours, absent-mindedly flicking through tv channels and looking for anything to entertain him, when there’s a sudden clattering from the kitchen, the sound of a chair being scraped back across the floor and then flung aside with too much enthusiasm. By the time he looks up, Sherlock is still int eh kitchen but seems to have summoned his Belstaff from somewhere, and shrugs it over his shoulders as he paces into the living room, phone clutched in his hand.

“Case?” John asks, as if the bright dancing light in Sherlock’s eyes wasn’t enough to tell him that anyway.

“Yes, and oh, it’s a good one,” Sherlock says. He’s bouncing on his toes in that little excited way he gets in so much trouble for doing at crime scenes, fingers tapping against his sides, and the rush of relief it sends over John to see him finally looking happy again is staggering.

“Done with your thinking for now then?” He asks, and Sherlock pauses in his movements for a second to raise an eyebrow at him.

“How did you know I’ve been thinking?” Sherlock asks him, and John almost laughs but manages to hold it back.

“You’ve been almost comatose for the last three days,” John tells him, “Kinda hard to miss that, even if I am as unobservant as you seem to think I am.”

“Oh, you are,” Sherlock assures him, grabbing a scarf from the back of his chair and looping it around his neck, “Now, case time.”

“Need me there?” John asks.

“Not yet,” Sherlock says, “In fact it’s better for you to stay stationed here right now.”

“Oh, okay,” John says. It’s not as surprising as it used to be when Sherlock no longer needs him on cases; since Rosie’s birth they’ve started splitting up cases between themselves more, so there’s always someone around to care for her. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss how things used to be, but the new compromise isn’t bad, not at all, and things seem to be going smoothly.

“I’ll need to stay in contact though,” Sherlock adds as he heads for the door, turning over his shoulder to call “keep your phone on!” before the door slams behind him and the sound of his hurried footsteps shakes the flat for a few moments. In the silence left behind after the outer door shuts and Sherlock disappears into the streets of London, John sits there for a second more, and then gets up to his feet with a sigh to go and check on Rosie.

The rest of the afternoon drags along slowly with no word from Sherlock and nothing of interest happening, and eventually John drags himself off to bed earlier than usual, figuring if anything he might be able to get a good night’s sleep for once. Predictably, though, he can’t quite let himself fall asleep, head too full of questions about where exactly Sherlock is right now and what he’s doing. He’d said he’d stay in contact, and yet there’s been not a single message from him since he left. That in itself isn’t concerning, Sherlock’s bad enough at communication on a normal day, but he still can’t help himself worrying. He’d do anything to be out there with Sherlock to keep an eye on him.

“Stop being stupid,” he hisses to himself after what feels like hours of laying there sleepless, “Sherlock’s fine. The idiot always is.” Even as he says it, he knows he’s lying just a little; Sherlock’s tendency to get himself into terrible situations is alarming at best. Even so, he forces his head down onto his pillows again, presses his eyes closed, and finally drifts into an uncomfortable sleep.

It’s still dark in the room when John wakes, pulled from sleep by the ringing of his phone beside the bed. Even while still half asleep he’s sure there’s only one person that would ring him at this time of night. As he finally grabs hold of the phone from beside him, he lets out an irritated groan before answering it.

“Sherlock,” he says, ready to rant about social hours.

“No, it’s me,” a familiar voice says, and instantly John sits bolt upright in bed.

“Lestrade?” He asks, “Something wrong?”

“Look, John, don’t panic but we lost contact with Sherlock half an hour ago. He was chasing a suspect,” Greg says.

“He does that all the time, he’s fine,” John says.

“No but,” Greg pauses, and the deep breath he draws in is enough to make John realises that maybe this is just a little more serious than he thought. “We traced him to a warehouse,” Greg says after a moment, “We haven’t found him inside yet but...there’s a lot of blood here, John. You just...you might wanna get down here, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” John mumbles, pushing himself upwards out of bed quickly, stumbling in the darkness, “Send me the address, okay?”

“I will, just get here quickly,” Greg says, and then he hangs up, leaving John alone in a silence that now feels far too oppressive.

Adrenaline begins to steadily trickle into his bloodstream as he strips himself of his pajamas and searches around for the clothes he’d discarded beside the bed earlier, panic driving each of his actions, barely enough room in his mind for conscious thought or decision. Some part of his brain knows that Sherlock’s fine, that he’s always fine, that he could probably walk through hell and still be fine, but he can’t get the memory of Sherlock on the pavement outside Bart’s out of his head, the blood dark and thick as it clung to the floor, Sherlocks blue eyes glassy, all of it still too vivid and real in his mind as he stumbles through the bedroom looking for shoes. He’s lost Sherlock once before, and he’s not about to do it again.

Only as he’s about to leave his room does his gaze finally fall onto the crib in the corner, and the crashing realisation that he has a daughter he has to think about now as well as Sherlock hits him.

“Shit,” John says out loud, stopping in the centre of the bedroom and staring down into the crib. A lump builds at the back of his throat, burning frustration and worry, and he presses his eyes closed again as he stands, curling trembling hands into fists until his nails press into his calloused palms, grounding himself in the moment as a thousand horrific memories begin to press up against the edges of his consciousness.

Rosie stirs slightly, lets out a sleepy whine, and John gathers her into his arms without a second thought. Mrs Hudson is away, he can’t call Molly, and there’s really only one solution.

Five minutes later, John bursts out of the flat with his phone in his hand, an address from Lestrade on the screen and his heart racing too fast, and Rosie strapped to his front in her baby carrier. The address isn’t far, ten minutes by car maybe, but it feels too far, too much distance between him and a possibly injured Sherlock, and so when he finally flags down a cab he thrusts a few notes at the driver and urges him to drive as fast as he possibly can. Rosie drifts off as the car starts, dozing against his chest, leaving John feeling even more alone once again, and he presses his forehead to the cool glass of the window and watches London pass by, hoping desperately that wherever Sherlock is out there, he’s okay.

They’re so close to the crime scene when the call comes. Lestrade’s name flashes up on screen and another surge of adrenaline fills John up, his hands shaking more and more as he lifts it up to his ear.

“John?” Greg calls from the other side of a crackly reception.

“Yeah, I’m here, I’m on my way,” John replies, “What’s going on there?”

“John,” Greg says again, “We’ve found him.”

“Oh. Is he...Is he…” John can’t quite bring himself to voice what his mind is currently screaming.

“He’s been stabbed,” Greg says, “Look John don’t -” But the rest of whatever he says falls on deaf ears. The screaming in John’s mind reaches a crescendo, a thousand images other than that of the taxi he’s currently in covering his vision. _Sherlock on the pavement. Head at the wrong angle. Deep claret blood._ Not again. _Sherlock on his back. Bullet wound to the stomach. The gun in Mary’s hand. Mary._ Not again. He can't do this again.

“Sir, we’re here.” A voice breaks through his thoughts, and John looks up to find that the cab’s still and the driver’s looking at him expectantly. He thrusts more money at him, mumbling something almost incoherent about keeping the change, and then staggers out of the car.

Across the road is the warehouse, taped off and lit by the distant streetlights and the rapidly flashing blue lights of the police cars discarded haphazardly outside, and the waiting ambulance. John barely remembers to check the street is clear before he all but runs across it and up to the waiting crowd.

“John!” A voice shouts, and he catches sight of Lestrade’s familiar silver hair above the rest, making his way towards him.

“Where is he?” John asks the second Greg reaches him.

“Ambulance,” Greg says, gesturing towards it, “Go quick, I think they’re about to take him away.”

And that’s all John needs to hear before he’s shoving his way through the gathered crowd towards the ambulance, it’s bright lights blinding him and making him stumble as he goes.

“Dr Watson!” A voice calls, and a familiar figure steps into his path.

“Donovan,” John sighs. He hasn’t got time for Sally right now, for whatever she’s got to say. But then she just holds out her arms, palms up, and John’s confused for a moment.

“Let me hold Rosie,” she says, “The ambulance will just upset her.”

For a moment he’s dumbfounded, and then he’s worried again. Donovan being nice can only mean this is worse than he could have hoped. And so he hurriedly unstraps Rosie from his chest, hushing her gently as she whines, and passes her over, before he’s running the rest of the way towards the ambulance.

“He’s my friend,” he says to the woman by the ambulance door before she can say anything, and the words are so sickeningly familiar on his tongue that he almost chokes on them. And then he;s stumbling up into the fluorescent lighting of the ambulance, and there’s Sherlock sprawled out on his back, face pale and shining with sweat, his breathing laboured.

“Sir, we need to -”

“I’m a doctor,” John says, “And he’s my best friend. Please just let me see him.”

The paramedic nods, and John creeps a little closer to look over Sherlock. His injuries are already covered, the paramedics having gotten to work quickly, but the smears of drying blood on his hands and face are enough for John to know how badly he must be injured.

“Sherlock,” John mutters quietly, “Please, just be okay for me. We’re good at miracles, you and me, so just...just another miracle for me. Just get through this.”

Sherlock’s still, completely unconscious, far from John and from the world, and yet John watches carefully for any sign of his friend listening to him. But there’s nothing. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest, John ould almost imagine he were…No, he won’t think that.

“Sir we need to move him to hospital, right now,” the first paramedic says, “Are you travelling with him or -”

“No, no, I need… my daughter, our daughter, I need to bring her. I’ll follow behind,”John mumbles, “Just...look after him?”

“That’s my job, sir,” the paramedic assures him, “He’s in good hands, I promise.”

“Thank you,” John says, and then he’s being directed back out of the ambulance and having Rosie passed back to him before they’re instructed into a waiting police car as the ambulance screams away from the side of the road and out towards Bart’s.

The next hours of John’s life are both the fastest and longest of his life. The waiting room of the hospital is cold, and the constant flickering of the LED lights drives a thrumming ache into his head that leaves him even more miserable and wound up than before. Someone takes Rosie from him at some point, he doesn’t keep track of who, and he’s told she’s been taken back to Baker Street where Mrs Hudson has apparently also returned to. After that, he starts to slide in and out of sleep in the chair he’s sitting in. Finally, he falls asleep properly, and when he’s woken up again it’s by someone sitting down heavily beside him.

His eyes are blurry with sleep as he first looks over at them, and he blinks the heaviness away for a moment before they finally come into focus. “Mycroft?” he mumbles, “What’re you -”

“It wouldn’t look good if I didn’t turn up while my own brother was in the hospital,” Mycroft replies curtly. John raises an eyebrow at him, and he sighs in reluctant admittance. “Alright, alright,” he sighs, “I care for Sherlock, you know that, don’t make me admit it.”

“I know you do,” John says, “Have you heard anything about -”

“Oh yes, that’s what I came here to tell you,” Mycroft says, “He’s awake. I’ve just been in to see him.”

“And is he -”

“As alive and obnoxious as ever,” Mycroft replies, getting up to his feet as he speaks, “Now, I do have to be going, but I suggest you go in and speak to him. He was asking after you.”

Mycroft turns for a second, and nods once in John’s direction before he goes, something almost of respect in his posture, or at least John would imagine that was what it was if he didn’t know the man better. Instead, he’s sure it’s just another of the polite gestures that are ingrained into Mycroft’s behaviour. He watches the man walk off without another word, and then stands up himself, and slowly makes his way towards Sherlock’s room. Outside the door he has to steel himself for a second, and then slowly he reaches out and pushes it open, tryin

When he steps in through the door, Sherlock is sitting upright in bed, head back against the pillows behind him, heart rate monitor beating at a relievingly steady pace.At the sound of the door shutting behind John, he turns his head and greets him with a small crooked smile.

“The idiot missed my heart,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards his injury, looking as nonchalant as ever, and suddenly John feels all the emotions of the last hours boil over in a wave of hot anger.

“You dick!” He shouts, storming up to bed. Instantly, the nurse in the room glances over at him, and then hurries out of the room. Sherlock’s face twitches just a little, and he leans back away from John as he leans over him. “You absolute dick! I thought you were dead! I thought...I thought...I thought I was going to lose you again! Why would you do this again?”

“John I-”

“No, Sherlock,” John snaps, “You are going to listen to me this time! Okay?”

Sherlock blinks a few times curiously at John, and then nods. “Okay,” he says.

“Good,” John says, “You have got to stop doing this, Sherlock. I can’t deal with...I can’t deal with the thought of losing you! Not again! It’s not just you you have to think of now Sherlock, it’s me, and Rosie, and Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, you can’t just leave all of us again because of this goddamn hero complex of yours.”

“I’m not a -”

“Shut up!” John snaps, and sees the way Sherlock flinches, “I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean I just -”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, “Just... please don’t hurt me.”

At that, all of the adrenaline suddenly recedes from John’s veins, and his legs start to shake under him. “Hurt you? S-Sherlock why would I -” The memory from that day in the morgue hits John like a train, the feeling of Sherlock’s cheekbones against his knuckles, the coppery scent of blood, Sherlock passively just letting everything happen. John’s legs buckle underneath him and he shudders a little, before falling down onto his knees at the side of the bed, hands scrabbling at the sheets for something to find purchase on.

“Sherlock I would never,” John says quietly, “Not again. I’m so sorry and I...never again, I’ll never hurt you again I promise.” His eyes gloss over with tears as he tries desperately to rid his mind of the memories of all those times he’s hurt Sherlock, of all the times they’ve hurt each other, and he leans over until his forehead hits the mattress and presses his eyes closed as hard as he can.

He vaguely registers the sound of movement, and then one of Sherlock’s hands covers his, insistently pushing downwards until John moves his own hand from the sheets so Sherlock can lace their fingers together and squeeze his hand gently.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock says, his voice now back to being as stable and reassuring as ever.

“It’s not,” John says with a distressed shake of his head, “It’s fucking not! None of this is okay.”

There’s a heavy sigh from Sherlock’s direction, and then Sherlock squeezes John’s hand again. “It is what it is?” He offers, and John can’t help a small smile at the wave of relief that the familiarity of the phrase sends washing over him.

“It is what it is,” he murmurs back quietly, and when he finally lifts up his head, he looks over at Sherlock and finds the detective smiling fondly at him. “You really got yourself stabbed?” John huffs softly after a moment, and Sherlock lets out a low laugh.

“I caught a killer, John,” Sherlock says, “Isn’t that more important?”

“No,” John says exasperatedly. Sherlock leans his head to one side curiously, blinking at John, but then the two of them are distracted by the door opening up again.

“Oh, sorry,” the nurse says as she steps back in.

“It’s fine,” John says, quickly scrambling up to his feet and tearing his hands away from Sherlock, earning him another look he can’t quite read from the detective. The nurse watches them curiously for a second, before approaching them.

“Mr Holmes is going to need to stay here for a day at least,” the nurse says, “We need to track his progress.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sherlock protests, and John shuts him up with a glare.

“Sherlock,” John says, “You are going to listen to the nurses and the doctors, okay?”

“You’re a doctor, you could look after me,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Yes, I’m a doctor, and I’m telling you to stay in the hospital, okay?”

Sherlock stares at him for a second in a way that makes John expect him to be defiant, but then he nods reluctantly. “Only one night,” he grumbles.

“You’ll stay as long as you need to,” John tells him. Sherlock pouts, but doesn’t argue further, and the nurse nods at John before she leaves the room again.

“You should go home, John,” Sherlock says after the door shuts, “Wait...where’s Rosie?”

“Someone took her back to Baker Street,” john says, “She came with me to the crime scene and here but -”

“You took her to the crime scene?”

“Yeah,” John says slowly, not quite understanding the small smirk on Sherlock’s face.

“You broke rule three,” Sherlock says.

John lets out a low groan. “I guess I did,” he sighs, “Maybe if one of us hadn’t got stabbed, I wouldn’t have had to.”

“I’ll try not to do it again,” Sherlock offers with a hopeful smirk, and John shakes his head at him.

“You are not to get yourself stabbed again,” he tells him, “And that’s doctor’s orders.” Sherlock stares at him for a second more, and then cracks a tiny grin at him.

“Okay doctor,” he drawls, and then leans his head back until it thuds into the pillow behind him. For a second John sees Sherlock’s eyes slip closed, and realises just how exhausted Sherlock must be by now.

“And as a doctor,” he adds, “I think it’s probably better if I go home, so you can get some rest.”

“Yes, you need rest too,” Sherlock says, “And what I really need is morphine.”

“Hmm, I’ll tell the nurse on the way out,” John says, “But don’t get used to it. You’re off all that stuff now, remember?”

“Yes, John, I remember,” Sherlock murmurs, “I always remember.” For a few moments he struggles until finally managing to push himself upwards into a sitting position again, and then looks over at John again. “I’m sure I’ll be back in Baker Street by tomorrow,” he tells him, “So spend some time with Rosie and don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. No point in spending your time in hospital with me when you needn’t be here.”

“As sentimental as ever,” John tells him with a small sigh and a shake of his head, “But okay, if you’re sure you’ll be alright.”

“I am always alright,” Sherlock reminds him, and John lets out a tiny sigh of relief. Sherlock’s right; somehow, he is always okay, no matter what. Both of them are always okay.

So he just steps up closer to his friend, leaning down until he can just about awkwardly wrap one arm sideways around Sherlock’s torso in a loose hug, not wanting to irritate his injury further. He hears the small huff of air Sherlock lets out in surprise, and laughs softly as he pulls away from him. Sherlock blinks up at him, head leaned towards one side in confusion, and the sight of him being so much like himself as usual is enough to finally ease the last of John’s panic away. And without even meaning to, he reaches out gently to ruffle Sherlock's hair, fingers tangling in thick, soft curls, before he turns to leave, and for a second, he could almost imagine he sees Sherlock’s eyes drop closed in contentment at the touch. John just smiles carefully to himself, and waves a goodbye in Sherlock’s direction before finally leaving the hospital.

*****

It’s weird how even when he’s silent and lost in thought, Sherlock’s presence always fills up the flat. For the next twenty four hours, John is vividly aware of this fact. He feels Sherlock’s absence in everything he does, everywhere he goes. It’s in the little things, mostly; the way there’s no one to tell when the milk runs out, no one to shout at terrible telly programmes with, and no one constantly stealing his laptop out from under his nose. In the silence of the flat in between times when Rosie’s awake, he understands how Sherlock finds himself talking to empty air so often when he’s alone in the flat. It feels exactly how it did when Sherlock fell, in the time before he decided he needed to move out of 221B, and yet somehow worse, because this time John knows there’s an end to this, and he’s restless for Sherlock to come home. And yet he doesn’t allow himself to give in to the urge to visit Sherlock at the hospital. The detective had seemed adamant he could get through the day alone, and John’s not one to push his boundaries too often. And so he sticks it out in the flat, distracts himself playing games with his daughter, and tries to ignore the emptiness of Sherlock’s chair as much as he possibly can.

And then finally that evening, Mycroft calls.

“John, I’m bringing Sherlock back to 221B now. Be ready for him.”

“Woah, wait wait wait,” John calls before Mycroft can hang up, “He’s out of hospital?”

“Yes, I just picked him up,” Mycroft replies.

“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t the hospital call me?”

“I thought it would be easier if I just picked him up, I arranged it with the hospital,” Mycroft says, “I’ll drop him off in half an hour.” And then, in typical Mycroft fashion, he hangs up without another word.

“I’ll put the kettle on then,” John says to himself in the empty kitchen.

Almost exactly half an hour later there’s a knock at the door, and John doesn’t realise how quickly he’s rushing to get it until he’s at the door and somehow out of breath.

“Keys. Where are your keys?” He mutters as he opens the door, though he can’t even try and fake irritation when he sees Sherlock standing there alone, no sign of Mycroft anywhere, totally unsurprisingly.

“I think I left my keys behind,” Sherlock says feebly, and John lets out a laugh that’s louder than he’d expected it to be. He lets out another laugh once again, all the relief of finally having Sherlock back in 221B finally washing over him,

“Just get inside you idiot,” he says, an uncontrollable grin spreading across his face, “I’m gonna order Chinese food.”

“You’re happy,” Sherlock states as he follows him inside, “Why are you happy?”

John stops in the middle of the living room to turn back and look at him. “Because you’re back, Sherlock. Obviously,” she says, “And I missed you. You scared me.”

“But I was fine,” Sherlock protests, flopping down into his chair, instantly looking right back at home again, filling up the void he had left behind in the flat as naturally as ever.

John passes over a cup of tea that’s been waiting in the kitchen, and then collapses down into his own chair, stretching his legs out until his and Sherlock’s feet are side by side as usual. And the sight of him sitting there, as comfortable as usual and safe as can be, is enough to compel John to finally say what’s been on his mind for the last two days.

“Sherlock I just...I need you to know that…” John trails off, and then takes a deep breath before trying again, “Look, I never meant to be dependent on you. I never meant for...anything that’s happened since the first day I met you at Bart’s. But this has all happened, and I’ll never not be grateful for you being in my life. But I am dependent on you, and I can’t...I can’t constantly live with the fear that one day you won’t be here anymore like Mary isn’t. Rosie and I need someone, and I want that someone to be you, but I need to know that you want to be that person too.”

John doesn’t miss the way Sherlock’s eyes widen a little at that, and for a long time he’s silent, so much so it reminds John of the time he asked him to be his best man. Then, all of a sudden he moves, sets his cup of tea down so rapidly it almost spills, and then leans forwards in his chair until he’s almost sliding out of it, getting himself down at eye level with John.

“In all the years we’ve known each other,” Sherlock says, “We’ve both changed...a lot. But I am still the same as I have always been, a fool who is no good when it comes to emotion and sentimentality. But trust me when I say that there will never be a day when I am not there for yourself and young Watson. Because as much as solving crime is a fix I will always need, I would give it all up in an instant for you two, the only people I have ever truly felt a connection to. And that’s...that’s all I have to say.” Sherlock trails off awkwardly, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck, and drops down his gaze to avoid John’s, as emotionally vulnerable as ever. And so John slides down off of his own chair, reaches out his arms to tug Sherlock down the rest of the way to the floor with him, and then draws Sherlock forwards into a hug.

“That,” John says, raising a hand to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in closer, “Is the only thing I’ve ever needed to hear from you.”

“Well,” Sherlock mumbles, “I agreed to your damn rules, didn’t I? I thought you already knew all of that.”

“Hmm, well, it helps to hear it from you,” John says, patting him on the back a little awkwardly as he sits back from the hug. “Now let’s just...put this behind us and order food, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock agrees with a grin.

******

“You want to watch Death in Paradise and guess who the murderer is before the murder even happens?” John asks later as he flops down onto the sofa beside Sherlock, trays of food spread out over the coffee table..

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums in agreement, and throws the remote over into John’s lap to let him choose the channel.

By the time the opening theme to the show starts, Sherlock’s slowly picking at an egg roll and has settled further back into the sofa cushions behind him, and looking over at him, John could almost imagine he’d never been gone.

“You’ve seen this episode before haven’t you?” He asks as Sherlock starts to mutter to himself about it.

“Yes,” Sherlock admits, reaching forwards to pull a container of rice towards him, “The attempted plot twist at the end is abysmal.”

John chuckles slightly, leaning his head back and feeling his eyes close tiredly against his will. He hasn’t slept since Sherlock was stabbed, he realises, and only now is he properly feeling the exhaustion.

“You can sleep, you know,” Sherlock says, “There’s no experiments in the microwave, so you can reheat food later.”

John rolls his head sideways and opens up one eye to find Sherlock watching him carefully, a small bemused smile on his face. “Thanks,” he murmurs, “But I’m fine, really.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock drawls sarcastically, “That’s why you can barely keep your eyes open and your hands are shaking.”

“I’m just glad you’re back,” John says, “Couldn’t sleep last night. I was so worried you were gonna -”

“But I didn’t,” Sherlock says, “So sleep now, if you want. I have put you through enough to justify your falling asleep on me this once.” And his voice is so gentle and insistently reassuring that already John can feel himself starting to drift off to sleep again.

“Oh,” Sherlock mutters after a moment, voice quietly breaking in through the fuzziness of John’s mind, “Look, the detective is about to mislabel cyanide as arsenic. How quaint. Even Anderson could have done a better job.”

“Hmm, well, maybe you should write your own show,” John mumbles, aware his voice is slurred, but Sherlock seems to understand enough judging by the low chuckle he lets out. It sends a wave of warmth rushing through John, and he finally lets his head roll sideways until his jaw hits Sherlock’s shoulder. There’s a moment where he feels Sherlock tense up underneath him, but then he relaxes, and John feels a head gently lean down against his, curly hair pressing against his head.

“Not dead. Again,” Sherlock rumbles, and John can’t quite tell if he’s talking to him or to himself, so he keeps his mouth shut either way, “A simple stab wound isn’t going to be what ends me. And anyway, I’ve got more to stay here for now. Not a thing on Earth that would tear me away from Baker Street again.”

There’s a moment of pause, and then John feels it: a hand comes down and settles on his shoulder, warm and pressing, pulling him further down as the last of sleep comes up to claim him. The food on the table starts to go cold and the tv is playing to nobody but itself, but neither card. In the dim lighting of the flat, Sherlock smiles faintly to himself as John falls deeper and deeper into sleep against his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update took ages because summer is here and my laptop crashes constantly in hot weather and then i got writers block buttt here we are. i secretly hate this chapter but we'll go with it or i'll never finish this fic which i am also starting to just hate overall. okay bye for now, next update hopefully will be quicker


	5. rule four - experiments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shorter fluff chapter! unbeta'ed as usual so pls let me know if there's any typos, i don't have time for spellcheck lol

Rule Four: Don't experiment on Rosie

When John wakes the next morning, it’s to sunlight pouring over his face through the living room windows and the familiar feeling of a heavy blanket draped over him. He blinks his eyes open slowly into the bright light and slowly pushes himself upwards through aching limbs and a head slightly fuzzy with tiredness, blanket sliding heavily down onto the floor and piling up there with a soft thump.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice says calmly, and John almost jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” He breathes out once his heart has stopped racing. Slowly, John turns, and finds Sherlock standing behind the sofa, gazing down serenely at him with Rosie in his arms, her head lolling tiredly against his shoulder. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” John tells him.

“Probably still will,” Sherlock says, corner of his mouth quirking upwards into a slightly sad smile at the old joke.

“What are you… what are you standing there for?” He asks with a sigh. By now he shouldn’t be surprised by something as simple as Sherlock watching him sleep, he supposes.

“Mrs Hudson made toast, do you want some?” Sherlock offers, and John can’t quite tell if that’s an answer or just Sherlock dodging his question.

“Why’d she make toast?” He mumbles, “Thought she wasn’t our house keeper.”

“She isn’t,” Sherlock says, and then scrunching his nose up a little, adds, “Said something about being happy for us finally sorting ourselves out.” His face screws up further before he finishes with, “I think she breaks into our flat in the middle of the night sometimes.”

Well that’s a lot for this time in the morning. John sighs tiredly and rubs at his eyes heavily. “Right, well, toast sounds good,” John sighs, “Is there tea?”

Sherlock lets out a small huff of laughter as he starts off towards the kitchen. “There’s always tea,” he tells him over his shoulder.

*****

John heads to work at the clinic later with his head spinning very slightly, the vague reminder of falling asleep against Sherlock’s side the night before still lingering in his mind, and it stays there throughout the day as he tries his best to focus on the work. It’s not so hard to push all thoughts of Sherlock out of his mind for a few hours (it’s become a necessary skill after so many years of solving crimes with Sherlock in his out of work hours), but still the day seems to drag on long and slow. His first few meetings with patients go smoothly as ever, but as midday nears, things start to go wrong. He writes up a prescription wrong twice, until the student nurse who’s studying with him that week seems to start doubting he’s actually a worthy teacher, misdiagnoses an ear infection which causes a problem in reception, and ruins some of his paperwork. He’s distracted and his back hurts from sleeping on the couch all night, and by the time he faces a particularly difficult client in the afternoon he’s desperate to get home. The warm living room of 221B and the steady drone of Sherlock’s voice talking through the latest case he’s solved while John’s been out while Rosie sits in his lap is suddenly far more appealing than he thinks it’s ever been, and when he’s done with his last client from the day he practically races to get out of the door and home.

The streets are busy, and with the pressure of the day already wearing him down, he can feel the irritation grow, sneaking up on him until he realises he’s limping slightly, carrying the weight of the world in his leg like he has done for so many years. Sherlock would laugh if he saw him, not quite to mock him, but just enough to remind him how preposterous the whole thing is, despite the fact he can’t control it (contrary to Sherlock’s belief). He should have gotten a cab. But instead he just hurries the rest of the way to Baker Street as fast as his aching leg will let him, thinking only of a cup of tea in his chair and the sound of Sherlock’s composing. Finally, the door comes into sight.

The flat seems weirdly empty when he gets back. Sherlock being out on a case when he gets back isn’t unusual, but he was sure Sherlock had specifically taken a day off to spend with Rosie today, and he’d expected to at least have a text if he’d be out. And then from upstairs he hears it: the loud giggle of an excited toddler, and the lower, rumbling laugh of the world’s only consulting detective. He feels half the weight on his shoulders melt right off at the sound, and hurriedly toes off his shoes in the entrance before he follows the distant sound up to his own bedroom.

For a moment by the door he pauses.

“Now, Watson, you know that’s not the correct way to do things,” he hears Sherlock say from inside, gently but with the softest sigh of the frustration of a man who is still yet to fully learn the restraints of a child’s understanding of the world. And then there’s another deep laugh. John raises an eyebrow curiously as he slowly reaches for the door handle and pushes it open.

Inside, Sherlock is sat on John’s bedroom carpet, cross-legged and folded in on himself, fingertips pressed to his chin as he surveys Rosie, laying on the floor opposite him on her back. There’s a strange mobile of toys hanging above her, and as John watches, Sherlock reaches out to spin it, his eyes glinting very slightly as she reaches upwards in an attempt to bat at them with her tiny hands.

“What,” John says in amusement, “Are you doing?”

Sherlock blinks heavily a few times as he’s pulled out of his thoughts and realises John’s there, and then turns his head with a faint smile. “Hello, john, I didn’t what you come in,” he says, and then looks back at Rosie, “I’m testing her.”

“Testing her?” John asks, stepping further into the room and standing over his daughter. His sudden presence distracts her, and she stretches her arms up towards him. “Hi sweetheart,” he murmurs, crouching to pick her up, and hearing Sherlock mumble something about a disrupted experiment. “Sherlock,” he says with a sigh, “Experimenting on her?”

“Sort of,” Sherlock replies, “I’m testing her ability to learn. Cognitive development should be assessed regularly in young children.”

“She’s seven months old,” John reminds him,” What exactly can you possibly be testing her on?”

Sherlock looks around happily at the toys distributed all around him on the floor, and then picks one up. “She has favourites, clearly,” Sherlock says, “She always picks up certain toys. That’s advanced thinking.”

“Right,” John says, “And?”

“I want to see if I can use her choices to assess what decisions I can make to make her as happy as possible,” Sherlock says, and John’s heart almost stops. “Sorry for experimenting on her, I know it’s against the rules.”

“Yeah, no, it’s...fine,” John says slowly, trying to work out exactly what Sherlock’s been doing here all day but, as always, just a little shocked by the reminder that Sherlock goes out of his way so often to try and make Rosie happy.

He doesn’t get long to dwell on this, though, before Sherlock’s eyes are on him, pupils flickering away as he assesses him, mouthing words to himself just slightly. “Tension in the shoulders, frown just slightly too harsh to be your natural resting face, and you’re screwing your eyes up like you’ve got a headache brewing,” Sherlock murmurs interestedly, “Bad day?”

“Just busy, made stupid mistakes, you know,” John sighs, “The usual.”

Sherlock’s silent for a few moments, watching him carefully, until John’s almost worried, and then he just lets out a light sigh, and slowly gets up to his feet. “What can I do?” He asks.

“What?”

“What can I do?” Sherlock repeats himself with a slight huff, “To help you. How can I help? I want to...I said I want to be there for you but I’m bad at this so...how?”

John feels just a slight bit more of that tension melt off of his shoulders. “Just...be there,” he admits, “Just being around you is enough, okay?” And Sherlock smiles at him, eyes lighting up just a little. The sight of it makes something stir gently in John’s stomach.

“Dinner?” Sherlock suggests, “And crap telly?” He looks a little unsure, won’t make eye contact, like he’s nervous John will turn him down.

And John lets out a breathy laugh, and then adjusts Rosie gently where she’s leaning against his hip, using a free hand to brush down the curls on top of her head. “Yeah, that sounds good,” he agrees with a smile, “Let me cook, though, okay? I need to do something with my hands, distraction and all that. You can’t bloody cook anyway.”

Sherlock grins, a relieved little grin, and then suggests, “We’ve got peas. If you want to cook...the thing with the peas.”

“One day, Sherlock Holmes,” John laughs softly, “I’m going to tell you the name of something and you’re going to remember it.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock says, with the faintest glint of humour in his eyes. And, still shaking his head a little in amusement, John heads back downstairs, with Sherlock following after him.

“So, you broke another rule,” John says a while later as he’s rummaging through the fridge that is currently thankfully empty of any experiments, Rosie now strapped into her chair and giggling at nothing from the side of the room. He glances over with a smile to the list of rules pinned up on the board, the ink on it fading slightly in the sunlight, and wonders how many deductions about the things John has cooked in this room recently Sherlock could make just from that one sheet of paper.

“Yes, I think I did,” Sherlock replies, having the good grace to look just a little guilty.

“It’s okay,” John says, “If you did it for good reasons, it’s okay. Just no like...potentially scarring experiments, okay?” And Sherlock grins a relaxed, grateful grin that makes John wonder how anyone could ever believe all that nonsense about him being a sociopath. He bats aside his wonderful, stupid in all the right ways, detective flatmate, and gets to cooking.

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to apparently grow bored of simply watching John cook from the side of the room. And instead of just wandering off or drifting into his mind palace like he usually does, he insteads starts inching closer and closer to John, who watches him curiously out of the corner of his eye until Sherlock is close enough that he’s practically watching over his shoulder.

“What’s up?” He asks as he adds in the last few ingredients and stirs everything together, but Sherlock stays silent, just nodding for John to continue. And so he continues stirring for a moment or so, breathing in the smell of cooking that’s now filling the air until he’s distracted by Sherlock moving and then leaning against his back gently, leaning down to hook his chin over John’s shoulder carefully. John’s even more confused now. Every time he thinks he’s just about worked out Sherlock’s behaviour, the detective does something else entirely baffling like this and leaves him confused again. With a sigh, he puts a lid over the pot on the stove and then shuffles away from Sherlock slightly, just so he can turn to face him.

“Seriously, what are you doing?” John sighs.

“Thinking,” Sherlock murmurs quietly. His eyes flicker, roaming over John’s body a few times until John’s starting to feel just a little too vulnerable under his gaze, and then he slowly raises his hands and rests them on John’s shoulders. Under his touch, John stills, feels his breath catch in his throat as the detective’s fingers kneed gently into the tense muscles where his neck meets his shoulders and then slide downwards to grasp at his arms.

“Sherlock, what-” he mumbles, but is cut off by Sherlock taking another step forward and slowly drawing John into a cautious hug, circling his arms around him and pressing his hands against his back. Sherlock’s hands are always cold, and his frame is thin and bony and angular, but somehow he manages to fit against John perfectly comfortably, and instantly John feels the last of the stress seep away as he lets himself lean further in and raises his own arms up to hug Sherlock back. They’ve hugged before, but this somehow feels more intimate than before, especially as he feels Sherlock turn his head in to press his face into John’s hair and let out a tiny sigh of contentment.

“You like physical touch,” Sherlock murmurs after a moment, and the deep baritone of his voice so close almost makes John shiver. “You like to pretend you don’t, but you do. You’re usually the more affectionate one in relationships, it makes you embarrassed.”

“How do you - Wait no, why are you saying this?”

Sherlock runs a hand gently up John’s back. “I’ve been studying,” Sherlock admits, “How to...comfort you. I’m not good at...most physical things but I want to be good at this for you and for me.”

And John can hear in the weight of his voice just how much he means by this, and how seriously he wants John to take this for once. “Thank you,” he says, and finds he really means it. He raises one of his own hands nervously, until he finds curls and sinks his fingers into them curiously, finding they wrap themselves around his fingers almost instinctively, and gently strokes his hands through the hair at the back of Sherlock’s neck in a careful rhythm. This, he realises, is what he’s been needing all day. And maybe this is what he’s been needing for a much, much longer time than that.

“Dinner will burn,” he murmurs eventually, when they’ve been standing there for what feels like it could have been hours. He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat coursing a slow and careful beat through his own body, and the detective has started humming very quietly at some point, and he feels he could almost sink into Sherlock and lose himself in there, melt into the feel of this one moment and never climb back out. Sherlock’s arms loosen around him gently, and his head lifts up, releasing John gently from the lock of his embrace. And when the both of them stand back, John reluctantly stepping back from him, he sees that there’s a shyness in Sherlock’s eyes he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. It makes him suddenly feel too far away from Sherlock and far too close all at the same time.

“Lean down,” he tells him, embarrassed by how shaky his voice comes out, “Like a lot, you’re too tall.”

Sherlock leans weirdly in the most awkward way John’s ever seen, so much so he barely manages to hold back from laughing, and watches him with a confused gaze. And John just leans upwards and presses his lips gently against one of those perfect cheekbones, feeling Sherlock’s eyelashes against his skin as his eyes slip closed.

“Thank you,” John says again when he pulls back, seconds before the reality of what he’s just done starts screaming through his mind. He looks up again, and _oh_. Sherlock’s face, for what John thinks might be the first time ever, is just a little flushed, a nice red colour riding high in his cheeks and, amusingly enough, right at the tips of his ears, and his eyes are wide but distant, mouth half open as he mutters to himself. It's enough to tell John he's not made a mistake, and it soothes the screaming voice in his mind just enough for him to speak.

“Okay,” John says, knowing it’s going to take a little while for Sherlock to draw back out of this, “I’ll let you work out where that goes in your mind palace, let me just make sure this isn’t burning.” And fighting back to stop his own face burning up, he turns back to the oven to check on their dinner. And that’s when he feels a large, cool hand press against the side of his neck, and then Sherlock presses a soft kiss to the top of his head before moving away and drifting out of the room without a word.

 _So_ , John thinks to himself as he removes the food from the stove to be served, _I guess this is what we are now_. What they are has always been a question best left unanswered and unfaced, but now, maybe in this way at least, John thinks they’re starting to work it out somehow. What they are is a pair of men who have never quite fit into the world, thrilled by danger and never working well with others. What they are is messy and confusing, and not quite clear, but beautiful nonetheless, or John thinks so anyway.

“Oh, wonderful,” he hears Sherlock drawl from the next room, as casually as if this is just another day in their life (and maybe, really, it is), “Jeremy Kyle’s on.”

John laughs to himself as he scoops up two plates of food to carry them into the living room, a deep laugh that he feels his relief seep into as it carries through the quiet flat. Whatever this is, he thinks they’ll make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i lied about this next update coming quicker didn't i, holy shit i was gone for ages. writer's block said no. and now i have to start going back to college again so i'm losing writing time which is why this one's so short. we're nearing the end anyway, just two more chapters to go folks. this chapter was just quick filler fluff, the next two are where it's gonna really wrap up into what i wanted this fic to be about in the first place so i hope you'll stick around for that!  
> bye for now!! - C


	6. rule five - drugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for this chapter: drugs and past drug addictions, a gay bar with a couple of slightly ominous customers/workers, discussions of asexuality and feeling pressure in sexual relationships

Rule Five: no drugs in the flat

“Sherlock, why are we here?” John sighs. It’s been one day since that nice, quiet moment in the kitchen. Twenty four hours of peace and now here they are again on some dingy street corner, the weight of a loaded gun sitting familiarly in his pocket and the flashing lights from passing cars blinding him every time they get too close.

“I was looking through some old cold cases,” Sherlock says, speaking for the first time since he burst up from a pile of paper on the floor two hours previously and then dragged John from the flat, leaving Rosie in the arms of a rightfully alarmed looking Mrs Hudson, “Lestrade was kind enough to give them to me, and I noticed a pattern in a few cases. They lead here.”

John looks, confused, along the dark street they’re standing on, not a single possible criminal in sight, and then back at Sherlock with a shrug.

“Well not right here, obviously,” Sherlock huffs exasperatedly, “Down there!” He points with a sigh further down to the corner of the road, and then, before John can question it, reaches out and grabs John’s wrist, beginning to drag him along.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” John huffs, stumbling to try and keep up with Sherlock’s too-fast pace, “I’m coming, you haven’t got to drag me around.” Secretly, though, the pressure of Sherlock’s fingers, cold but insistent around his wrist, is reassuring enough, and he lets Sherlock continue to drag him for a few more paces until it gets a little too strange, and he wriggles his arm free.

Sherlock stumbles to a halt just as they turn around the corner, and subtly tilts his head sideways in the direction of a building directly across the road from them. John follows the gesture, and then pauses in whatever he was previously about to say, words forgotten as he realises where Sherlock’s brought them.

“Really?” John sighs, “Is this necessary?”

“Yes it is,” Sherlock says, already heading off towards the road, “I need to check something with the bartender who’s working tonight.”

“And you needed me with you for that?” John sighs, hurrying after him as they dash across the road in the break between the steady stream of taxis.

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, pausing in his step for a moment to glance over his shoulder at John. “I’d rather not be here alone,” he admits, a little quieter, looking almost ashamed for a second. There’s no time for John to question that before Sherlock disappears off again, straight through the doors of a gay bar.

*****

It’s loud inside the club, pulsing music and bass almost knocking John off his feet as he follows Sherlock through the door, and dark too, the only light coming from fluorescents in a rainbow of colours, all of them ensuring John an awful headache later as they shine directly into his eyes. Sherlock’s head is just about visible above the others, and John plunges into the crowd with a sigh of resignation, weaving through a web of limbs to try and keep up with him. He doesn’t hate clubbing, used to enjoy it in his younger days even, but he’s too old for this now, the loud music and lights mixing awfully, and the crowd too close for his old aching bones to quite put up with. But if Sherlock says there’s some importance in being here, then John trusts that he’s right, and puts up with it for the time being. He follows Sherlock out towards the bar, glad for the slightly less dense crowd there, and finds himself led to a seat of miraculously empty bar stools.

“Sherlock,” He sighs as he hops up onto the stool and turns to face his flatmate, “What on earth are we doing here?”

“Like I said, I need to speak to the bartender on tonight’s shift,” Sherlock says, “Do you want a drink?”

“I...what?”

“Drink. Do you want one?” Sherlock sighs, “It would look weird if we came to sit at a bar and didn’t order drinks, John.”

“Oh, right,” John says. This he can do. Blending into crowds, acting undercover, this is the sort of stuff he’s used to doing with Sherlock. “Uh, yeah,” he decides, “Just like a pint of beer, I guess.”

Sherlock nods once, and then holds out a hand, beckoning over the distant bartender. And John simply settles himself as comfortably as it’s possible to be onto the cheap barstool, and waits for whatever Sherlock’s planning to take place.

The bartender shuffles over, an older man with a grizzled beard and a practiced grin that grows a little as he looks over at Sherlock. “Well, if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes himself,” he says, too loudly, Sherlock flinching just a little at it, probably disliking being called out for who he is in a place most likely holding their wanted criminal. “Haven’t seen you around these parts for a long time,” the bartender adds, before looking over at John, “And you finally got yourself a date, good on you.” Sherlock smiles a tight strained smile with the smallest of nods. “The usual for you?” The bartender asks, and gets another nod, “And for your date?”

“A pint of beer. Whatever beer’s closest,” Sherlock mutters. His voice is quiet, too quiet, even in the loud bar John can tell Sherlock’s unsettled by something, and he subconsciously leans over the bar a little further, closing the distance between him and Sherlock just slightly as the bartender heads off.

“You know him?” John asks, and Sherlock hunches down a little, head tucking in closer to his chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs after a moment. It’s almost inaudible over the music.

“He’s a friend?” John asks.

“Friend is probably not the right word. Right now he’s just someone who owes me a favour and might be the last piece in a missing puzzle to solve a decade old cold case,” Sherlock says, “That’s all that matters.”

“Right, you don’t want to talk about it then,” John says, filling in the obvious blanks, “That’s fine.” Sherlock nods tautly, and the two of them lapse back into silence as they wait, the distant excited squealing of a young girl reaching his ears as they do so.

The bartender comes back again finally, pushing a pint of beer across the counter towards John and then places a glass of scotch carefully in front of Sherlock.

“So, you showing your new man around your old haunts?” The man asks with another one of those too-perfect grins, “Sherlock here used to be one of our best customers. The dance floor hasn’t been the same since he stopped coming here. Neither has the drug dealer in the alley out back.”

Again, Sherlock flinches, and scoops the glass into his hand, draining down half the scotch in one gulp before he slams it back down. “We’re not here on a social visit, Billy,” he says eventually, voice just a little too harsh, even for Sherlock, “I need a favour. Remember that favour you owe me?”

“That was years back, Sherlock,” the bartender (Billy, apparently) says.

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock says, “And now I’m cashing it in. Now I need you to watch out for some information for me and get back to me. Can you do that much?”

“You asking me to spy on patrons?” Billy asks.

“Never been too much to ask from you before,” Sherlock retorts, “Unless of course, you’re forgetting that one time-” and Billy nods and holds his hands up in surrender quickly.

“Yeah, yeah, you got me,” he sighs, “What can I do for you?”

Sherlock reaches into his pocket then, pulling out a few loose scraps of paper, photos maybe at John’s best guess, and slides them across the grossly sticky bar. “You see any of these people, you call me,” he tells Billy, “And you make sure you keep a careful eye on what they do while they’re here, and what they drink. Got it?”

There’s a moments pause as Billy flicks through the photos, and then stows them away into his own pocket. “I think i recognise some of these guys,” he says, “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, a rare moment of politeness, and then downs the last of his scotch before standing up off of his own stool. “John,” he calls, “We’re done here.”

With a sigh, John looks down at the half empty pint in his hand that he’s been sipping at subconsciously while watching whatever’s going on here, and then abandons it to stand up as well. “Alright,” he says, “We got everything here?”

Sherlock pulls his scarf tighter around his neck, an anxious thing John thinks he barely even registers he’s doing anymore. “I think so,” he says with a nod, “Let’s get out of here.”

And so when Sherlock heads back into the crowd to head through it back towards the door, John just follows after him, doing his best to keep up. Only halfway through the crowd, though, they’re stopped by someone suddenly reaching out a hand across their path, putting a hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder to stop him in his tracks.

“Sherlock!” A voice calls, and then there’s a man and a woman standing opposite them, smiling as well. Everyone here is too happy, John decides. They are clubbing, and probably drunk, after all.

“It is you!” The woman leers, “We haven’t seen you in years. I thought you were dead, ‘til Dylan here spotted you in the local paper. Detective, huh? Dead seemed more likely, what with the drugs and all.”

“Yeah, you were crazy back in the day, man,” the guy, Dylan, adds, “So, back to clubbing, huh?”

“No,” Sherlock says, “I’m here on...business.”

“You won’t be solving many murders here,” the woman smiles, “Things have improved since you were last here.”

“Have they?” Sherlock drawls, “Sure. Well, it was lovely seeing you again.” There’s the usual sarcastic tone to his voice, but something else too, something darker. John could almost think he was...angry for some reason.

“You should come back sometime,” Dylan adds, “For old time’s sake. Or stay now. I’ll buy you a drink. Scotch, right? Or was it wine?”

“Both,” Sherlock replies, “But I’m not here to drink. We have somewhere to be.”

“Do we?” John asks, feeling not for the first time that evening that he’s been thrown into some weird twisted alternate reality with no warning.

“Yes,” Sherlock repeats, and then reaches out, grabs at John’s wrist once again, and starts to drag him further through the crowd. “Lovely to see you again,” he snaps loudly over his shoulder before he drags John away.

“Do you know them?” John asks, and gets no answer, just the slight tightening of fingers around his wrist until they finally break out of the crowd and reach the door. It flies open, cold air a relief when it hits John’s face, and they step out onto the rain-dampened pavement, the first few drops of what threatens to be a storm later falling onto their heads. His ears ring from the aftermath of the music and the sharp taste of cheap beer hangs in his mouth, but what’s more concerning, he thinks, is the tightness of Sherlock’s shoulders as he stops on the pavement just ahead of John, and the clenching of his fists at his sides. He’s still too tense, and it worries John. Before he can question it, though, Sherlock starts moving again, and all John can do is chase after him.

“So,” John says, once they’re further up the road and his ears have stopped ringing quite so much.

Sherlock’s on the lookout for a cab already, peering out into the road, and he turns his head to look at John curiously for a moment. “What?” He asks.

“Really doesn’t feel like I needed to be there,” John states, “You had that all under control.”

“Yes, well, like I said, I didn’t want to be there alone,” Sherlock says, sighing as another cab rolls by, already filled with customers.

“That man at the bar knew you,” John states, “Lot of people there seemed to recognise you. Why’d you need me?” It’s not the question he wants to ask, but it’s the one that seems the only one to ask right now.

Sherlock turns then to glare at John very slightly, eyes flaring wide in the light of a bus that rushes by. “I said I needed you there! That’s it!” He hisses, the go to defence tactic of Sherlock’s when he doesn’t want to talk about something, “It’s not like you had anything better to do tonight. Oh, look, cab.” His shoulder shoves into John’s as he steps away from him to throw a hand out and call a cab, and John stumbles for a moment on the kerb before following him dumbfoundedly.

“Sherlock,” he says quietly, once he’s in the cab, the tiny middle seat of the cab feeling too far of a distance between the two of them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock duck his head quietly, shoulders slumping now that that sudden snap of anger seems to have gone away. He looks small, or as small as someone of his stature can be, and John’s reminded of his quietness in the club, and just how unsettled he seemed. Something about that space between them draws John in, and he reaches out a hand to bridge it, dropping it down onto Sherlock’s knee as casually as he can.

“John, what -” Sherlock starts, and then tails off.

“Where you need me, I’ll be,” John tells him quietly, “I can promise you that at least.” It’s as good of a ‘sorry’ as he can manage.

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath and says nothing. A few moments later, though, a cold hand settles on top of his own and squeezes gently. He doesn’t dare look over in fear of breaking the fragility of the moment, but the shuffling sound of Sherlock’s hair against the headrest as his friend settles more comfortably back into the chair is enough to tell John that he’s forgiven, for now at least.

*****

221B is a welcome sight when they finally get out of the cab and to the door, having to draw themselves away from each other if only for a moment to climb out of the car, but drifting back to each others’ sides as Sherlock fishes in his pocket for the keys.

“Mrs Hudson will keep Rosie for tonight, I already asked her,” Sherlock says as they step inside.

“Why?” John asks.

“Because I knew you were going to have questions,” Sherlock says, heading for the stairs, “And it’s better we don’t keep Rosie awake, I suppose.”

“Huh, when did you become considerate?” John asks, following him upwards towards their door.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock assures him as they duck inside, and John lets out the smallest chuckle as they toss their coats aside.

Sherlock’s right, John has a lot of questions about whatever went on tonight, but he doesn’t get into it right away. He’s got a feeling there’s a lot to unpack, and so he stays quiet as Sherlock drifts into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, choosing instead to seek out two mugs for the both of them.

“So what exactly were we looking for tonight?” He asks when the tea’s steeping. That seems the best place to start.

“A murderer,” Sherlock breathes out, just a touch excited at the prospect apparently, “A drug dealing serial killer from a decade ago. Looks like some of his main operations lead back to that bar. To think, all that time I was there, he could have been right under my nose!”

“So you did…you used to frequent that place?” John asks, a little confused on how to voice it. The thought of Sherlock clubbing is both alarming and amusing.

“About fifteen years ago, yes,” Sherlock sighs, “They were not the best few years of my life, and something I endeavour to forget. Mycroft will surely be having a breakdown once he realises where I’ve been tonight. He does worry, I suppose, in his own way. And he has the right too. He dragged me out of that place enough times, and any other bar in the area that would continue to let me in”

“Can’t ever imagine you being big into the clubbing scene,” John states as he’s handed a mug of tea.

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock assures him, “I hated it, actually. But I was still...trying to fit in, I suppose. And I thought that was the best place for it. Where else to drink and take a lot of drugs and not be seen as an outcast?”

“So...why?” John asks. He can’t think of what else to say. “You don’t seem to mind being an outcast now,” he adds eventually.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and then lets out a small sigh and nods towards the living room. “Let’s sit,” he says, “Grab the biscuit tin on your way.”

“Yes sir,” John mutters as sarcastically as he can manage, and doesn’t miss the huff he gets from the direction of the fireplace as he pulls the biscuit tin down from its spot on top of the microwave. He follows it out to their chairs and settles down into his comfortably with a sigh, watching carefully as Sherlock shuffles himself into a better position for the story-telling that’s sure to come.

“When I was about thirteen,” Sherlock begins eventually, looking pained. He hates talking about his childhood, John remembers, and feels infinitely more grateful that Sherlock honours him enough to talk to him about this stuff. “When i was thirteen,” Sherlock starts again, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I figured I was gay.”

Oh. That’s not what John was expecting to hear. “Okay,” he says, “Right. That’s fine.”

Sherlock lets out a huff of laughter. “I know,” he replies a little fondly, before continuing, “And I was fine with that. I had a gay uncle. Mum loved him. I figured it’d all be fine. Then when I was seventeen I got my first boyfriend. It felt like it had been a long time coming, and I thought I was ready. And...it was nice. We went to college together, we’d walk round the halls holding hands and pick each other up from classes, that awful sentimental stuff I hadn't yet made the wise decision to swear off. But eventually he wanted more.”

“More?” John asks, and sees Sherlock flinch ever so slightly.

“Sex,” Sherlock says as bluntly as he can, “As much as Mycroft thinks I’m alarmed by sex, John, I’m not. But I don't like it, or want it. The term asexual would fit me best, I suppose.”

“Oh,” John mutters. It’s not a surprise, not really. He’d figured as much from the vaguest things Mycroft’s told him about Sherlock, but the thought that Sherlock actually finds the time to label himself is almost interesting to John.

“Yes, well, that was a problem,” Sherlock says, a little snappily, “So we broke up. It was awful, and afterwards I thought… I thought I was unlovable. That was when the drugs got bad. I’d experimented a bit before but after that...they filled up the hole I’d had to make in my mind palace to flush the bad stuff out.”

“And the clubs?” John asks.

“They were a place to go for the drug dealers, at first,” Sherlock says, “Then the alcohol. And after that, the people, I suppose. There was nothing good there but the people made me feel less alone. But the men there…” And there Sherlock stops, and shudders just a little, “They always wanted things from me and I...it’s hard to not feel broken, John, as much as Mycroft tried to talk me out of those feelings.” He looks up and then tilts his head in interest at John, “But then… you’d know about feeling broken, wouldn’t you? I guess maybe that’s not just my own problem.”

“Yeah,” John says, breathing out a sigh of relief to find that there’s some way he can at least relate to Sherlock on this, “I felt the same when I came back from war. Like no one around you understands you.”

Sherlock lets out the saddest laugh John thinks he’s ever heard. “Feels empty, doesn’t it?” He asks, and John nods in miserable agreement. “I was glad those days were over,” Sherlock says, “Going back there tonight was bad, but having you with me was a bit better, I suppose. At least I didn’t feel alone.”

“That guy at the bar thought you were my date,” John points out.

“Easier to let him think that,” Sherlock shrugs, “You didn’t mind, did you?”

“I...no,” John says, and means it. When did he stop caring if people thought they were a couple or not? He can’t even remember. All he knows is it doesn’t matter to him anymore. Nothing does except for Sherlock, and Rosie, and their happiness. What people perceive their little family unit as means nothing to him anymore. He pretends he doesn’t see Sherlock’s private little smile at that though.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says after a moment, “For not...making it a big deal, I guess.”

“Sherlock, you harpooned a pig once,” John says, “And you keep dead things in our freezer. You being asexual was definitely not going to be the thing that tipped our relationship over the balance.” He sees the way Sherlock instantly freezes at ‘relationship’ and backtracks. “Sorry, sorry, I mean, I know you don’t see relationships like that, and I don’t see you like that, it’s like -”

“John, you’re floundering again,” Sherlock tells him, “I know what you mean. I always do.”

“Right,” John says awkwardly, “Right, yeah, okay.” He clears his throat softly before adding, “Sherlock what I said about not dating anymore and...just having this. I mean it. But...nothing more than what you want, okay?”

“Are you saying you want there to be an…’us’? Sherlock asks.

“I.” And there it is, the question John’s been avoiding from everyone for years. Because Sherlock, now and all the time, is everything. He’s crashed into the centre of John’s life like nothing has before, and stayed there somehow. And yeah, he’s attractive, John guesses, not that he’s allowed himself to consider it much. But Sherlock is...he’s amazing and brilliant and beautiful in the way he swans into places like he owns them and reads every one of John’s thoughts in the smallest of his mannerisms. He knows John like no one ever has, and John doesn’t know what he’d do without him. His heart status to a shuddering halt at that thought.

“I love you,” he breathes out, as shocked by his own thoughts as he’s sure Sherlock is to hear it, and then panics, looking up at Sherlock quickly over a mug of tea long gone cold.

“John,” Sherlock says, but John’s already too drawn into his anxiety to focus on it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean, I didn’t, I...shit!” John snaps. He told Sherlock he loves him. After all of that, all the years and all the secrets and heartbreak, he just told him like that. Why would he ever think that was a good idea? “I should go to bed,” John says, getting to his feet and abandoning his mug aside on the coffee table as he stumbles past it. Bed sounds like a good idea. Staring at the ceiling in the darkness for a while might quiet his mind at least.

“John,” Sherlock calls again, but he’s already going, hurrying for the stairs and the quiet salvation of his bedroom, and Sherlock makes no attempt to get up. By the time John disappears around the corner, he can see from the corner of his eye Sherlock sinking into his mind palace with a troubled look on his face. He crashes upstairs into his bedroom in a wave of panic and sinks down onto the bed with a sigh.

“Fucking idiot,” he tells himself as the door swings itself shut with a thud. Sherlock doesn’t like him like that, he has to remind himself, and that certainly wasn’t what Sherlock wanted to hear after pretty much coming out to him. A stew of self-hatred and fear stirring in the pit of his stomach, he rolls over to press his face into the pillows, and wills sleep to swallow him up, pretending he doesn’t feel the hot trickle of tears down his cheeks before they soak into the bed under him. Darkness consumes him quicker than he’d expected it to.

*****

John wakes groggily in the morning. The curtains he forgot to shut the night before let the first rays of the rising sun spill over onto his face, blinding bleary eyes as he blinks them open and tries to puzzle his way through the vague memories of the night before. When it finally clicks into place, his heart stutters, and he sinks back down under the duvet with the smallest of groans, cheeks burning just at the memory. Just yesterday morning he had only the tiniest inkling of what exactly he felt for Sherlock, and now here he is twenty-four hours later in the burning aftermath of a terrible love confession. He thought he’d left this awkwardness behind in his teenage years.

His self pity party is drawn to a rude stop by a sudden knocking at the door. Three sharp knocks, not the usual cheery tune of Mrs Hudson, and there’s no one else around here at this time in the morning.

“Come in,” he calls, a sharp jolt of adrenaline forcing its way into his bloodstream when the door starts to open.

“Good morning,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles as his flatmate steps around the half-opened door, a mug of tea balanced in his hand. It’s forcibly polite, and instantly John’s on edge.

“Uh, hi,” John says, “What are you-”

“I heard you wake up,” Sherlock says, “Very specific pattern of bed spring movement. You always need tea after a drink, even if it was just half a pint last night.”

“Sherlock, about last night,” John starts as the mug’s set down onto his bedside table before Sherlock retreats.

“Later,” Sherlock says, “I’ve got work.” And then he’s disappearing out of the door again, feet thudding gently down the stairs.

In the quiet afterwards, John reaches out and draws the tea to him, peering down into the mug. A peace offering, maybe? But what has Sherlock got to be apologising for? Poisoned? Somehow more likely. He sips at it, and tastes honey rich against his tongue, Sherlock’s subtle signature touch. Just a cup of tea, then. _The mystery continues,_ he thinks to himself, and almost laughs.

One cup of tea and thirty minutes spent picking out a jumper and panicking, John emerges from his bedroom as quietly as he can, afraid somehow of making his presence too known in the flat. Rosie, he notices, is in her chair in the living room, babbling away to herself. He stops as he passes by to kiss her forehead before carrying on to the kitchen.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” He snaps as he steps into the kitchen, coming upon what is somehow the least expected scene he could have found there.

Drugs. There are so many drugs, laid out across the kitchen table in bags in various shapes and sizes. Literally every drug Sherlock could possibly have gathered at John’s best guess.

“Oh, you’re up, good,” Sherlock says, from where he’s crouched next to the table, at eye level with the hoard of drugs.

“Sherlock!” John huffs, “Why?”

“Working,” Sherlock murmurs, shuffling sideways just a little across the floor to get closer to a certain bag of drugs. This must be his punishment, John decides. Sherlock must have been waiting with all of this, just waiting for whenever he needed to scare John away. He promises himself as he stands there that he’s not going to let it work.

“Where did this all come from?” He asks, scared of the answer. Sherlock looks up slowly, and rolls his eyes very slightly.

“The bar last night,” Sherlock replies.

Wait. What? “Wait, what?” John voices his actual thoughts this time, and leans in closer to look at the drugs, “Why? And How?”

“The murderer we’re looking for has a very specific type of drug he produces,” Sherlock says, “If I can find it here, it’s proof he’s still working in the area. And as for how: pickpocketing.”

“You stole this much? How?”

“I take the advantage of a coat with big pockets,” Sherlock murmurs thoughtfully, before reaching out, pushing aside two bags, and then picking up one packet of pills. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“Might be onto something,” Sherlock tells him, and then he’s sliding onto a seat opposite where his microscope’s shoved onto the one clear spot of table, and starts to crush one of the pills into dust.

“Anything I can do to help?” John asks.

“Nope,” Sherlock mutters, leaning in closer to the microscope. John leaves him to it, and goes to scoop Rosie out of her chair. She’s already been given breakfast, another one of those little things Sherlock does now without even thinking, and so he shifts her gently against his hip and carries her back into the kitchen to watch over from behind Sherlock.

“You know,” John says, “No drugs in the flat was kinda an important rule.” Sherlock grunts. “Rosie could get anything in her mouth if you’re not careful.”

“They’re in bags for a reason,” Sherlock says, raising his head from the eyepiece for just a second to glance over at John, eyes searching for something in John’s face for a second before he glances back down again.

“Just clean this shit up,” John sighs irritatedly, and heads back into the living room.

He’s not sure why he’s irritated. Maybe it’s because, once again, Sherlock’s pushing the limits of the rules they’re supposed to be sticking to, like he always does. But he thinks probably it’s because Sherlock’s pretending last night never happened. At this point, he’d even prefer there to have been a fight than this empty, pretending silence, like nothing ever happened. For once, John doesn’t want to just pretend that nothing ever happened. Instead, though, he just distracts himself by playing with Rosie. There’s never any point pushing Sherlock to talk about anything he doesn’t want to. John’s not even sure how he’d begin trying.

The silence presses on throughout the afternoon. John wasn’t expecting anything else, but with every minute of silence that passes, he finds himself more and more disappointed. He just wants Sherlock to say something. Rosie falls asleep later on and he takes her upstairs, and with that distraction gone, he takes to writing up a blog of a few of their latest crimes instead.

Vaguely, after a long while, he’s aware of Sherlock striding into the room, the sound of him spinning very slightly enough to indicate some sort of triumphant break through in the case, and then there’s a phone call to Lestrade in which he hears only a few shouts of names before Sherlock hangs up again. So, case over, it would appear. John smiles a little to himself as he keeps writing.

“So,” Sherlock says. The sudden sound makes John jump a little, and he looks up curiously. Sherlock’s sat on the back of his chair, feet resting on the seat, watching John. “You, in fact...love...me.”

Shit. So, Sherlock actually does want to speak about it. John’s not sure he wants to, but he knows at the same time he’s got to. He started this all, after all.

“Yes,” he admits, and feels some sort of weight shift on his chest, and everything overflows after that. “And, look, Sherlock, just because I feel...that way, it doesn’t mean you have to. I don’t want you to feel like you have to feel anyway about me or do anything because of what I said. I know you’re asexual, and I’d never expect that from you but just -”

“John. Please be quiet for a moment,” Sherlock says, holding up a hand, and John shuts up. “I don’t know a lot about love,” Sherlock says after a moment, “I’ve done research, and I understand the science, but I cannot say I understand the feeling. I love my family, and I certainly love Rosie, but not in the way I think most people mean love. And then there’s you. My whole life has been a disaster, but then one day you came into my life, and everything was still a disaster, but when I was around you, it made a little bit more sense. And then I felt like...like I’d never felt before. John Watson, I don’t know if what I feel about you is what other people call love, certainly they probably wouldn’t approve, but I think I get to decide that for myself.”

“Sherlock,” John says quietly. He thinks he might be crying, just a little bit. “Sherlock what do you -”

“I think,” Sherlock says quietly, “I love you too?” He says it like it’s a question. John finds he doesn’t mind that at all.

John’s definitely crying now as he gets up from his chair, putting the laptop down onto the floor with the least of care as he crosses the space between them that suddenly feels impossibly huge, and reaches out with fumbling hands for Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling until he stands up from where he’s still perched on the back of the chair. There’s no resistance from Sherlock as John draws him into a tight hug, just the warmth of long arms coming up to encircle him, one hand pressed soothingly against his lower back as Sherlock presses closer.

John’s not sure if, in a million years, he could ever have predicted any of this. He’d expected to settle down with Mary, to raise Rosie with her, and after her death he’d expected he’d never find anything like that ever again. How long has he been forcing himself not to see what was right in front of him the whole time just because he thought it wasn’t what was meant for him?

“Sherlock,” he says quietly after a long while, “I don’t know what you want from a relationship but I...whatever. Whatever you want. It’s all good for me. I just need you. That’s all I’ve ever needed, I think.”

“Often,” Sherlock says quietly, “Asexual people are in queer-platonic relationships, though sometimes that’s if they’re aromantic too. It’s a relationship that sits more on the boundary of platonic and romantic rather than being a conventional relationship.”

“Is that...something you’d want?” John asks. Slowly, he extracts himself from within Sherlock’s embrace, missing the warmth of it but wanting to be able to look at Sherlock properly as they speak.

“I suppose,” Sherlock says, “Labelling things is not my speciality. Like I’ve said, I don’t do sex, nor am I a fan of overly public relationships and pda. But I am not opposed to other things.”

“Other things?” John asks, raising an eyebrow, and feeling some sense of satisfaction at the sight of Sherlock’s cheeks reddening just a little.

“This,” Sherlock says, gesturing to where their hands are still laying against each other’s arms and hips, a tangle of limbs, “Kissing, as well, I guess. And... cuddling.” He practically chokes on the last word, and John laughs fondly.

“Well that all sounds just fine,” John says.

“But you don’t...I mean, you like sex,” Sherlock says, “And I can’t.”

“I’m an old man, now,” John says, “I’m past my hayday. I can go without sex. I won’t...I wouldn’t mind for you, I mean for you I’d do...anything.” Ten years ago, he thinks he wouldn’t have ever considered giving up sex for anyone. Now it seems as natural as anything. Sherlock, he thinks, has become more important to him than anything. There’s not a single line he wouldn’t cross for Sherlock.

“John, you don’t have to,” Sherlock protests, and John moves one hand to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder gently.

“I do,” he murmurs gently, “I want to. For you. Always for you.”

There are tears in Sherlock’s eyes now, glistening against the bright blue of his irises and falling down his cheeks like crystals. John reaches up to catch one, gently brushing it away with one thumb.

“No one in my life has ever managed it,” Sherlock mutters quietly.

“None of them were as good as me then I guess,” John says, just to see Sherlock laugh a tiny bit.

“No one’s ever been like you before,” Sherlock agrees with a tiny smile, before he gently leans forwards until his forehead bumps against John’s. John smiles back up at him, letting his hand linger against Sherlock’s cheek, thumb tracing one of those sharp jawbones, before he moves his hand upwards and plunges it into those deep curls he always longs to touch.

“You know,” John says after a moment, “I think it’s about time we give up on those house rules, eager as you are to break all of them.” Sherlock’s laughter is a hot puff of breath against his face.

“Not still worried I’m going to ruin Rosie’s childhood?” Sherlock asks.

“I never was,” John admits, “I just wanted to make sure you were serious, make sure you wouldn’t bail on us when things got tricky.”

“Never,” Sherlock assures him, “Never. You and Rosie are all I need now.” The words bring back the bright warmth in John’s chest he only ever feels around Sherlock nowadays.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, waiting until Sherlock tilts his head upwards to look at him properly. “I love you,” he tells him quietly, whispering it like he’s scared saying it out loud will make it less true. And when Sherlock breaks into another one of those beautiful smiles, John can’t help but lean in and gently kiss him. It’s warm, and soft, and all consuming. It feels right. Somewhere, distantly, Rosie starts to cry. But this time, when Sherlock disappears off to find her, John’s sure the gap between them won’t be there for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for an ace person i sure can't describe asexuality very well.  
> anyways, that's the penultimate chapter folks, one most to go and we're done! as always, thanks for reading this far if you got here, i hope you'll stick around for the last bit!


	7. rule six - stay

**\---five years later---**

Winter has drawn in around London once again. It seems, to John at least, that the seasons seem to cycle around quicker and quicker each year. Now, the fallen leaves of autumn are turning to mulch in gutters, gathering crystals of frost (the closest thing London has had to snow in years now), and fairy lights have been hung between the buildings and lamp-posts, shining in the low light of early evening. Inside, comfortable in the cozy warmth of 221B, John crouches in the bedroom, wrapping the last of the gifts for the season, all aside from those Sherlock has stowed away and labelled with a harsh letter imploring John to keep out. Those few John will allow Sherlock to wrap for himself, the rest he has taken on as his own chore, saving the rest of their loved ones the plight of getting through Sherlock’s signature unbreakable layers of wrapping paper and excessive sellotape.

In the boxes, each of John’s gifts are laid out and wrapped as painstakingly carefully as they were chosen: new toys for Rosie, lego bricks and small toy animals and a couple of new books for her to read with Sherlock at bedtimes; a new throw blanket for Mrs Hudson; a scarf for Molly; a true crime book for Lestrade; and, of course, a brand new Belstaff for Sherlock, his current coat uncomfortably close to giving up the ghost after years of arduous case work. He presses a bow to the last gift and then stacks them up gently with a fond smile before moving them back towards the bottom of his half of the wardrobe. As he stacks in the last few, he reaches back to the floor for the last item, a large manilla envelope, and opens it back up carefully as he has done so many times in the last few weeks, anxiously checking and rechecking the papers inside. **Consent of Adoption** , reads the top of the paper, Rosie’s name printed further down the page along with several carefully printed boxes for Sherlock to sign. As always, John’s heart stumbles through its next few beats as he reads those papers, everything they need to finally be the family they already see themselves as. He only hopes it’s not too much, that Sherlock will agree. He smiles softly to himself as he holds the papers close.

There’s the shuddering sound of the walls shaking very slightly then as the door to the flat is pushed open, and John jolts upright a little, eying the half-closed bedroom door carefully.

“John?” A deep voice calls out, and John smiles at the familiarity of it. The clock across the bedroom reads half five in the afternoon. Sherlock’s back a little later than expected. John quickly pushes the papers back into the envelope, smoothing it closed, and then gently tucks it between two gifts.

“In here!” He calls back, “I’ll be out in a minute.” There’s no reply, and so he pushes the door to the wardrobe shut and then stands up slowly, wincing at the way his joints click with the movement before he heads out of the room. It barely takes a few moments for him to find Sherlock, filling up the kettle at the kitchen sink, still huddled in his coat and scarf. There’s a faint red flush still riding high on Sherlock’s cheeks from the cold outside when he turns his head as John wanders in and cracks a small smile at him.

“Daddy!” A voice shouts, and he turns to watch Rosie barrel in from the living room with all the usual energy of an almost-six-years-old child, one shoe on and one shoe off. He grins and crouches down to scoop her up just as she flings herself at him with a squeal.

“Hey,” he smiles, gathering her further up into his arms and grinning back at her, pressing a kiss to her forehead amongst the wild blonde hair that is slowly darkening as she grows, “How was Auntie Molly’s house?”

“Good!” Rosie cheers, still not quite at the stage of knowing how to keep her voice at a reasonable level, “We made gingerbread men, and I made one that looks like you!”

“Oh really?” John asks. She’s getting heavy in his arms, and so he lets her slide back down to the floor, where she instantly crouches and begins to pull at her other shoe.

“Uh-huh,” Rosie nods as she works the velcro, “And one for Nana Hudson, one for me and one for ‘Lock.”

“Mmh, I’m assured it looks just like me,” Sherlock murmurs from the side of the room. “Tea, John?”

“Yes, please,” John replies.

“It does!” Rosie assures at the same time, “I used blue sweets for your eyes.”

Sherlock laughs, a deep but bright sound that warms up the flat even more, and then wanders over to John as the tea bags are soaking in their mugs. Instantly, Sherlock settles himself into his favoured position, standing behind John with his arms draped loosely around him, his chin hooked on top of John’s head.

“Good day?” Sherlock asks quietly, huffing in slight amusement as Rosie finally gets her shoe off and instantly tosses it across the room.

“Yeah,” John replies, “Went to see Harry. She’s seeing someone new, seems to be going well. They’re happy, I think.”

“That’s nice,” Sherlock says.

“How was Scotland Yard?” John asks, “And Molly?”

“Insufferable as ever,” Sherlock answers, “Scotland Yard, that is. Molly is good. She really likes getting to spend time with Rosie.”

“I know,” John replies with a fond smile as he watches his daughter poke at cracks in the kitchen floor with a curiosity that’s eerily developing into something vaguely Sherlockian.

“We should invite her over on Boxing Day,” Sherlock suggests, surprising John entirely, “And Lestrade. Harry too, if you’d like.”

“Harry’s away with her partner’s family that day,” John says, “But thank you anyway.” He reaches a hand down to find Sherlock’s against his hip, and squeezes gently, lacing their fingers together. “Boxing Day would be nice,” he agrees, “Try and get Mycroft to come. God knows he needs to get out of that house sometimes. He can even bring Anthea if he really needs to feel at home.”

Sherlock lets out a soft huff of laughter, and then gently steps away from John to go back to making their tea, leaving John instantly earning for the return of that warmth. “I’ll send out messages tomorrow,” he agrees, “I can’t make any promises on my brother’s behalf, though.”

“No one ever can,” John says, before crouching down to his daughter’s level in the absence of Sherlock’s presence. “What are you looking at?” He asks.

“Looking for bugs,” She replies, happily sweeping one hand around on the floor.

“You won’t find any of them in here,” John tells her, “Nice and clean in here.”

“Hmm,” Rosie hums, a little dissatisfied, “I like bugs.”

“I know,” John says, “We’ll go look for bugs in the park one day when it’s warmer. How about you go put your shoes away for me, huh?”

Rosie grins excitedly at the promise, and then scrambles upwards with a nod, grabbing one shoe before she dashes off in search of the other.

“Bugs?” John asks Sherlock once she’s gone, and gets a shrug in return.

“Kids like weird things,” Sherlock says, and then, “Maybe we could get her one of those ant farms for Christmas.”

“You can go buy it,” John grumbles, “I’ve had enough of Christmas shopping for one year.”

“I’ll make one of Mycroft’s people do it,” Sherlock shrugs, and then presses a mug over into John’s hand. Ther hands brush and John sees a glimpse of their matching rings glinting in the kitchen lights. Not quite a marriage, but a promise from the year before, a promise of eternity no matter what. John smiles faintly at the sight as ever, and lets his hand linger over Sherlock’s for a moment before he takes the mug and lifts it up for a long sip, the warmth of it washing over him.

“I thought we could go to Angelo’s tonight,” Sherlock says after a moment, “I’ve already booked a table. I have a Christmas present to give to him anyway.” Again, John has to pause for a moment, always still so shocked by the slightest moments of sentimentality that Sherlock is starting to accept into his life.

“Sounds good,” he replies, “We haven’t been there in a while.”

“Mmh,” Sherlock hums in agreement, before taking a long, thoughtful sip of his tea and then nodding at the cardboard boxes cluttered onto the kitchen table. “Cleaning?” He asks.

“Just some old stuff of ours that was stored in Rosie’s room,” John says, “Thought we should sort it out; she needs the space.”

Sherlock nods, and then calls out “Rosie?” Instantly, the girl appears into the living room from wherever she’s been. The smudge of fresh purple ink on her face suggests she’s been making good use of the colouring books Molly loves to gift to her. “Fancy a trip to Angelo’s tonight?” He asks, and grins when she nods excitedly.

“Can I wear my blue dress?” She asks, “The one that matches your coat?”

“Sure,” Sherlock says, “Go find it, yeah?” And Rosie just nods once again and then dashes back off. The sound of her unsteady footsteps thudding up the stairs to the bedroom above shakes through the flat for a long time afterward.

“I’ll go put a nicer shirt on,” John decides, looking down at the comfortable but fairly casual cable knit jumper he’s been wearing all day. He doesn’t need to ask if Sherlock needs to change; he’s already dressed in the nicest of his shirt’s, clean white and pressed free of all creases, with a neat suit jacket over the top, as smart as ever and with his hair as ever gelled into its usual purposefully slight mess of curls, even with the slightest touch of grey now pressing in at his roots.

“Mmh,” Sherlock hums in agreement, “not that I don’t love your jumpers.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” John laughs, and drops a fleeting kiss onto Sherlock’s cheek as he strolls out of the room.

*****

It’s dark by the time they get out of the cab and wander into Angelo’s, Rosie shivering slightly in the navy blue dress she insisted on wearing and John carrying her mustard coloured raincoat just in case. The three of them are more than regular customers by now, and they barely have to eleven wait to be excitedly ushered into their usual table by the window, an unnecessarily large candle sitting waiting for them along with a single sheet of paper and some crayons for Rosie where she sits in between the two of them with her back against the glass.

“Sherlock!” Angelo exclaims happily as he makes his way out of the kitchen, “Good to see you again. And my my, little Rosie, you’ve grown!”

She giggles happily, muttering something about ‘thank you, Uncle Angelo’, and John’s reminded once again of just how many people love and protect his daughter. She’s got the biggest and strongest family unit she could possibly have, and he wonders why he ever worried she wouldn’t.

As they order their food and sit and wait in the gentle glow of streetlights and passing cars from outside, Sherlock gently aims a slight kick at John’s shin under the table, grinning when John looks up and catches his eye. It’s been five years, and the two of them are comfortable in whatever their relationship, still unlabeled, really is, and huge romantic moments and displays of affection have never quite been the thing for the two of them, but small moments like this, by now, come as easily as anything to them. A bus coasts by, and Sherlock’s eyes dance in the light. John reaches across the table to take his hand, closes his eyes for a moment, and lets everything melt away into the gentle warmth of their palms pressed together and the soft murmur of chattering background noise.

*****

“You know,” John says a lot later, as they finally return back to the door of 221B Baker Street, “When I was looking through those boxes earlier, I found something.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, too busy unlocking the door, but the gentle nod of his head is enough for John to know he’s listening. By now, being fluent in each other’s body language is as natural as anything for the two.

“Remember those old house rules?” John asks, “I found them. We must have packed them away after we took them down.”

Sherlock laughs ever so slightly, shoulders shaking very faintly in the shadows before the door swings open and he leads them all inside. “Yes, I remember,” he murmurs, “I don’t think we did so well at sticking to them.”

“Well, no,” John huffs in amusement, “But still, they’re a nice memento.” Sherlock sneers ever so slightly, and John grins. “Thought you went in for sentiment now,” he says, elbowing Sherlock ever so slightly, and earns a fondly irritated grunt in return as they parade together up the stairs, Rosie hanging exhaustedly onto John’s arm.

When they get in through the door, Sherlock sweeps in to scoop Rosie up into his arms,  
where her head lolls sleepily against his shoulder. “I’ll get her to bed,” Sherlock says, and John doesn’t protest, knowing by now how much Sherlock appreciates the time he gets to spend reading to Rosie as she falls asleep. He’s pretty sure the two of them are halfway through The Hobbit by now, though he’s unsure as to how much of it Rosie is actually taking in. Sherlock, though, seems to be enjoying the book far more than John had expected, and he wonders to himself as he adjusts the heating a little whether he could ever convince Sherlock to watch the movies with him one day. Chuckling a little to himself at the thought, he seeks through the box on the table for something remembered by their previous conversation, and pulls out the list of rules, faded, and the ink a little blurred in places from damp, but enough to bring a fond smile back to his face as he carries it with him, pouring over the words, and the small quips of Sherlock’s humour and John’s replies annotated around it in their handwriting in the time before they finally decided to take the list of rules down for good to make space to hang up the first of many drawings Rosie created for them in her reception class. He smiles for a moment more, before putting it down onto the coffee table, reminding himself to show it to Sherlock later.

By the time Sherlock gets back downstairs, John is settled on the sofa with one of their blankets, another of the new ones Mrs Hudson has been knitting for them, and it doesn’t take any sort of encouragement for his partner to join him, fitting himself comfortably against John’s side. Some nights, they watch tv for hours when one or both of them isn’t quite ready to sleep, neither of them quite free from the grips of their recurring nightmares yet, though John holds out the hope that one day they will be. Other nights, they listen to music, or Sherlock plays the violin quietly for them, and sometimes the two of them just sit together and enjoy the silence and each other’s company. Tonight is one of those nights.

John’s eyelids are already heavy with tiredness, and he can feel the slump of Sherlock’s shoulder against his that indicates he too is starting to feel the exhaustion of a long few days. It’s been easier recently to convince Sherlock into healthier sleep routines, but that hasn’t quite stopped him from pushing himself too far on occasion. And so when, a moment later, Sherlock leans over slightly, John lets himself be pulled along with his best friend as the two of them lay down and stretch out along the sofa, John ending up with his face pressed gently into the space between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, breathing in the heavy scent of his aftershave.

“Rosie needs to buy Christmas cards for her classmates,” Sherlock mumbles tiredly after a moment, sweeping long fingers through John’s hair, “Don’t let me forget.”

“You never forget anything,” John says, but makes a mental note to remind Sherlock either way.

“Mmh,” Sherlock mumbles, turning his head in to press a kiss to John’s temple.

“You know,” John says quietly, as his eyes once again fall onto the coffee table, “Those rules.”

“What about them?” Sherlock asks, “Thought we weren’t doing rules anymore.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, “Not that. I just meant… We always joke about you breaking them all, but you know, you never broke the last.”

Sherlock’s quite for a moment, his eyes slipping shut for a moment as he seemingly tries to remember exactly what those rules were, and then a tiny smile crosses his face. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs quietly, “Well, it’s not so easy to break a rule you never had any intention of breaking.”

“Hmm, what?” John mumbles, brain too sleep-addled to exactly make out what Sherlock’s trying to say.

“Your rules were hard to follow,” Sherlock says, stifling a yawn, “But that last one...I never wanted to break it, and I never will. I can promise you that alone.”

John’s heart flutters again in that warm, happy way that only Sherlock has ever done to him. “Sherlock, I -” he murmurs, but a soft humming noise from Sherlock draws his attention to the fact that his partner is already almost completely asleep, eyes shut and his face relaxing, and John can't bring himself to say much else and risk waking him up too much. There'll be more than enough time for everything he still needs to say tomorrow, or next week, or in all the years to come. And so, instead, he just quietly murmurs, “I love you,” to Sherlock, and sees a tiny, sleepy smile appear on Sherlock’s face for the briefest of seconds. That’s enough for now, he decides, anything else can be said in the morning. And so he shuffles in closer to Sherlock, and lets his own eyes close gently, the warmth of Sherlock’s presence surrounding him.

The fire crackles away to itself gently at the side of the room as the two of them lay there, a gentle background white noise that soothes John’s brain the rest of the way down to sleep. He shuffles around ever so slightly, pressing his face further into Sherlock’s shoulder as the man’s arms tighten carefully around him in a last movement before he falls fully asleep.

There are plans for the future. The adoption papers, of course, and Christmas with their friends and family, then life as usual, all of them growing slowly up into the world as Rosie goes through school and they continue on through whatever cases Scotland Yard can throw at them. Further on, maybe a marriage. They’ve entertained the idea, and John’s not opposed to it as long as Sherlock’s comfortable with it. A spring wedding would be nice, he thinks, and a small wedding too, just them and their loved ones in a private ceremony. Then, one day, after Rosie ages and moves on, and their bodies grow too old and pained for their crime solving days, John thinks he’ll try to convince Sherlock into a retirement of sorts. A Sussex home would be nice, with gardens and places for nice walks, and a small bit of peacefulness in their lives for once. Their family unit is small, and dysfunctional, and everything other than normal, but it works, and it will work. John doesn’t need to worry about that one anymore.

Yes, there are plans for the future. But for now, everything is perfect. For now, and forever, he has everything he needs. And the paper on the table, it’s last line of words illuminated in firelight, seems to think the same.

Rule Six: Please stay with us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey you, yeah you, you read all the way to the end?? that's super cool, you're a cool person, thanks for doing that!! i hope you enjoyed this fic! this isn't my best fic, but as an introduction to this fandom and my first time writing these characters i'm super happy with how it turned out and genuinely amazed by how many people took interest in it, and i've loved reading through all the wonderful comments. also this was originally supposed to be only like three or four chapters long but i love writing these characters and here we are. please do look out for other sherlock fanfics from me in the future as i do intend to write more and i'd love to see some of you guys around here again! for now, have a very good day, thank for you once again for reading this, and stay safe out there!!  
> \- C <3


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